


Heaven Sent and Hell Bent (Burn, Baby, Burn)

by ViolentAddict



Series: Omegaverse Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Age dynamic, Alpha Watson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, BAMF! Irene, Barebacking, Blowjobs, Bonding, Eventual Smut, FaceFucking, Fluff and Smut, Humiliation kink, Kinks, Lactation Kink, M/M, Mary Makes Herself a Nuisance, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Minor Character Death, More Plot than I realized, Mpreg, My Parents Are So Proud, Older Watson, Omega Sherlock, Omega Verse, Plot With Porn, Praise Kink, Pregnant Sex, RDJ! Verse, Rimming, Ritchie Verse, Sherlock breaks down, Slight Dom/Sub, SlightDom!Watson, Technically Religion Kink As Well, Teen!Sherlock, Twink!Sherlock, Underage though not really, but we still love her, so many kinks, sub!Sherlock, victorian era london
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-14 19:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3422651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolentAddict/pseuds/ViolentAddict
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teen! Omega! Sherlock sneaks out of his home while he's in heat to an Alpha pub where unsuspecting older! Alpha! Watson is having a drink. </p><p>Watson's sexually frustrated, Sherlock's a walking fantasy and it is too bloody cold in London for this. </p><p>Or</p><p>When Sherlock gets what he wants, the world is a better place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sin With A Smile

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock is 17, far past the age of consent in Victorian England but still young in our world. 
> 
> Hi guys! I missed you all so much. I want to thank everyone again for the support and love 'Holmes in Heat' received. It's amazing.
> 
> Anywho, I'm going by that mantra of writing the story you want to read, plus I was on SH kink meme and I love the younger Sherlock stories. What can I say? I have strange tastes. (^_^)
> 
> You are all warned, if this isn't your cup of tea, then please don't read any further. 
> 
> Special thanks to my betas Secret, 95Echelon and Abel for the edits and the much needed help on this chapter. You guys are awesome.
> 
> There will be more plot as the chapters progress, but not to fear, there will be smut. :) 
> 
> Please enjoy.

****

Heaven Sent and Hell Bent

_Some of them want to use you_   
_Some of them want to get used by you_   
_Some of them want to abuse you_   
_Some of them want to be abused_   
  
_I wanna use you and abuse you_   
_I wanna know what's inside you_

__

_—Marilyn Manson’s Sweet Dreams_

**  
_Devil's Acre, 19th century London, near Westminster Abbey_ **

 

      He doesn’t know what propels him to this area of town or more specifically, this pub with its gaudy interior, raucous people and its reputation for being rather low-brow.

       He doesn’t really have a good excuse, except that it’s a few weeks before his wedding to his fiancée Mary and he already has cold feet. And what better way is there to warm them than by engaging in a night of spirits and solace? At least that would be his response if anyone were to interrogate him.

       As soon as he steps through the door, his skin prickles and his spine stiffens—Alphas. The whole bar’s full of them, but of course it is. What else could he expect from a town just a few miles from Devil’s Acre, one of the most overpopulated Alpha slums in London?

       It’s the first time he’s been in a solely Alpha pub since getting engaged to Mary and he has to admit, it feels strangely… welcoming. It’s definitely been too long.

      The other bar patrons look up from their glasses but after realizing that Watson is just another one of them, they continue their activities without sparing him so much as a second glance.

     And John relaxes, because this is what he’s wanted for a long time; a place where he can simply be himself, without having to worry about his behavior or how others perceive him. Mary was a terrific woman, but sometimes it felt as if he were out of place with her friends and in the prim and proper life she was trying to build around him. He loves her, he truly does, but sometimes a man needs to get away from it all.  Tonight he was going to get absolutely smashed before he returned to the lodging, sleep it off and then resume being the picture of sophistication Mary wanted him to be.

      Taking a seat at an empty table, he signals for the barkeeper and orders a simple lager, just to lighten his head a little, get him in the mood.  

      He’s downing his second, watching a rowdy group of men throw darts, thinking of joining them, when he smells it—the pastry-sweet scent of an Omega in heat.

      The game of darts is forgotten and the whole pub falls silent, all attention turning to the entrance where a young boy, probably no older than fifteen, ambles in.

      Watson’s mouth drops open, because the very possibility of someone looking and smelling like _that_ can’t be feasible, not in this life or any other. The boy— _child_ , Watson quickly reminds himself—is walking temptation; from his come hither lips that are currently pursed to his huge, dark eyes searching the room for someone and his messy hair, that is in desperate need of a trim, ruffling when the boy turns his head.  And then that smell hits him, that warm, butterscotch scent that makes his mouth water and his hindbrain practically explode from the need to do something about this torture.

 _Calm yourself dammit,_ he mentally rebukes himself. He may be an Alpha at a bar in a dodgy part of town but it doesn’t mean he should act no better than the dogs on the street. He is still a gentleman and one of high caliber at that. So he takes a few deep breaths hoping to quell the burning need to _claim_ that borders on painful, when he realizes that his efforts are only serving to get more of that scent into his system.

      He wonders if the whole of London can smell the boy, if Alphas everywhere are gathering around, following the smell and waiting to lure him to some secluded, abandoned place to just _take_ him.

       Watson wonders how the boy even managed to get this far without being accosted.

      Before he can ponder any further, an Alpha, a rather large man with a beard, approaches the boy. Watson waits, wondering if he ought to intervene, when he sees the lad nod his head and the man, giving him a lecherous smile, leans in closer before placing a hand on his shoulder.

      He can’t see the boy’s face anymore but the bar’s gone quiet. It doesn’t take much for him to hear the exchange.

       “What’s a pretty little Omega like you doing out here at this time of night? Don’t you know it’s dangerous?” The bearded man questions, stroking the boy’s arm sensually.

     “I—It appears I’m in h-heat. I didn’t know where else to turn.” The teenager stammers nervously.

     The Alpha tuts. “Now, now, this isn’t the place for young lads such as yourself to dally. Do your Mum and Dad know you’re here?”

      The boy says nothing, but Watson imagines he’s nodding his head again.

     “Well, if you sit with me and my mates, I guarantee you not a soul will touch a hair on that head of yours.”

        But Watson is up from his seat in seconds. As a doctor, he treated Omegas and he knew how scared they could be and how intense heats were. A burly Alpha making untoward advances at an Omega in such a state doesn’t sit well with him, especially since the Omega is so _young._

        So Watson marches up to the pair, noting the grateful expression on the lad’s face as he interrupts their conversation.

        “Whatever may I ask is the problem here?” He inquires, rather bravely, seeing how the other Alpha is considerably larger than him.

       The bearded man narrows his eyes and gives Watson an annoyed glare. “There’s no problem, I was just seeing this lad to my seat. Lots of bad people out there, wanted him to be safe.”

        Watson turns to the boy and as the scent assaults him again, he helplessly watches the lad’s fever flushed skin brighten to an even darker scarlet and tries to tame the Alpha instincts flaring up within him.

        “What’s your name?” He asks, his tongue feeling heavy with the need to sink his teeth into that soft, unblemished neck.

        The boy looks up, giving Watson a better view of his eyes, darker than ebony they focus on him, like a night with no stars, like a sky without sun, they pin him, calculating. Watson has to catch his breath when he sees the lad’s nostrils flare as he scents him. It’s almost too much and Watson almost loses it once the boy pulls his plush bottom lip between his teeth and _bites._

       “My name’s Sherlock.” He smiles, and those eyes that are all pupil, flash at him wickedly.  There’s a layer of confidence that certainly wasn’t there before, dripping from every word.

       “Well Sherlock, you’re in heat and I’m afraid this chap is correct, you shouldn’t be at an Alpha pub in God knows where. Your parents wouldn’t like—”

       The boy—Sherlock, levels his gaze with him and in those eyes there is desperation and innocence as well as the same sort of self-assurance that can only be seen in lads his age, yet Watson’s never seen it on Omegas in heat.

      “Buy me a lager first and we’ll discuss my parents later, _sir._ ” The young lad replies and it goes straight to Watson’s groin.

      That’s when the bearded Alpha decides to interject, “Do you know this man?” He asks Sherlock.

      The lad shrugs, “He’s my doctor.”

       Watson’s jaw practically hits the floor. He hadn’t done anything to give away his professional status. _Perhaps it’s merely a fortunate conjecture…_ he thinks.

       The other Alpha narrows his eyes at the two of them. Watson braces himself for a confrontation because he, being one himself, knows that Alphas can get pretty aggressive when an obstacle stands in their way of getting a mate.

      Taking a look around the room, he sees that the others have completely halted their activity to stare at the three of them. Perhaps expecting an altercation as well or perhaps waiting for the other Alpha to back down so they can swarm in. It’s hard to tell at this point, but Watson braces himself all the same, instinctively taking a step closer to Sherlock as well, in the case, that if things get ugly the Omega will have a chance to be safe.  

      The bearded Alpha points a grimy finger at the two of them. “You can’t be much of a doctor if you advised the boy to go out in such a state.”

      Watson is about to give him a cutting retort when Sherlock pipes up, “He didn’t advise me, I came here looking for him. I’m not in the state to go home by myself and so after I get my drink, he’ll check me over and he’ll take me back home. Isn’t that right, _sir?_ ” Huge, dark chocolate eyes plead with him to go along with it and stupidly, Watson does.

      “Y-yes,” he says, “this lad’s my patient and it is my responsibility to see that he gets home safely. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

       He takes the boy’s hand and leads him past the sneering Alpha, to a table at the back of the pub. Once they are sitting down, Watson signals for the barkeep to get Sherlock a beer, (he wouldn’t normally give a child alcohol but seeing that they have to keep up with pretenses, he allows it), while glaring at any other Alphas that decide to scrutinize them until they lose their nerve and look away.

     The Alpha in Watson thrills at the fact that the Omega has taken an interest in him, but Watson tamps it down, because this isn’t about him, it’s about the interesting Omega who’s currently fidgeting in his seat. The look he’s giving John is doing nothing to mask his arousal and the scent and heat emitting off him in waves isn’t doing either of them any favors.

     “How did you know that I was a physician?” Watson asks after the barkeep brings the lad his beer.

      Sherlock shrugs, fidgeting again and Watson supposes that he’s wet and the thought alone does unhealthy things to his sanity. He wants to test his theory, it would be so easy to just lean up, reach around and rub his hand across the soft swell of that arse—

     “Your eyes, their focus is unshakable, almost like a detective’s. You are the only man in here with incredible concentration despite being surrounded by copious amounts of alcohol and drunkards, and I linked that with your profession. After all, a doctor can’t help being cautious and alert, especially one that’s served in the military.” Watson gawps at that and Sherlock continues, “I haven’t failed to notice the ring on your finger either. You ask me about my parents, what of your fiancée? She must be terribly indulgent to allow you here of all places to drink, or does she not know? I’m assuming you’re here because you’re having cold feet. Marriage they say is not for the faint of heart.”

       Watson struggles to regain his composure before he narrows his eyes at Sherlock, impressed by the boy’s perspicacity.

      “I know what you’re thinking,” the lad says in that surprisingly deep voice of his that’s got Watson pitching a bloody tent, “that for a child, I’m not average. Funny thing about you lot, always foolishly underestimating the knowledge of the younger generation. We notice things.” He points out, tapping a finger to his temple.

        Watson smirks, “You’re remarkably astute for a lad your age. You can’t be any older than fifteen, and I’m assuming you snuck out from your safe, warm house to get away from your stern parents. What’s the matter? Have they no respect for the fact that you’re in heat?”

        Sherlock glares at him, “You’re wrong, I’m seventeen. Mother says I’m a late bloomer.” He looks away then, and whispers as if he’s scared if he speaks too loud his parents will materialize from thin air, “And no, they don’t understand. Whenever I’m in heat, they lock me in my room for the five days and hope for me to wait it out. It’s torture, it’s extremely uncomfortable.”

       Watson feels a pang of sympathy for him, because he knows all too well the ignorance of the parents of Omegas. Some despise their children and send them off once they’re of age or arrange a marriage for them so they won’t be a burden to them anymore, while some love their children too much that they become overprotective and some after learning of the Omega status of a child, will simply ignore the child and force the child to fend for themselves. Of course, heats are a terrible time for all, as the uneducated parents, who are most likely not Omegas themselves, never have even the slightest clue of what to do and often the most chosen option is to lock their child away.

       It’s an inhumane practice that shouldn’t be executed as it does more harm than good.

       “I understand your frustration and your probable fear, but what exactly did you come here in search of? Surely you’ve heard of getting mated or worse, _raped_ , in your situation?” Watson questions, feeling that maybe the boy’s more naïve than he thinks.

       And Sherlock finally takes a sip of his lager, grimacing at the taste, “I’m not sure. I was hoping to soothe the itch--the _burn_ , really. And then maybe return home.”

       Watson blinks at him, “It’s not that simple. Once you’re mated, it lasts for life.”

       Those piercing deep eyes narrow at him, “Spare me the spiel doctor. Do you really think I’d come all this way to the sleaziest bar in all of London, for an Alpha that desires commitment? All I seek is a one time thing, just so these infernal heats lessen.”

        Watson chokes on perfectly good air, “That’s not how this works. It’s not just your body; your soul will bond with this person as well. Alphas can break a bond at anytime, but it’s not an easy process, and it usually isn’t a good outcome especially for an Omega. Didn’t you learn this in school?”

         The lad nods his head in the negative, shaking his dark locks in the process, “I’m home-schooled. And my governess is a beta. My parents don’t allow her to teach me about biology. They say it isn’t appropriate for a boy my age to know of such things. They fear I’ll-I’ll go out in search of a mate and that I’ll focus too much on my body like those Omegas you see on the streets and in br-brothels. They want me to grow up with morals and ethics and all that rot.”

        “You’re old enough to learn about soul bonds and pheromones. I’m guessing your parents have little care about what the law says the correct age of consent is and want to raise you by their own rules. Which is reasonable, seeing that many Omegas are forced into prostitution at a young age. I can even understand that they want to save you from such a fate, and yet it has been a massive failure seeing that you’re here instead of at home.” Watson points out.

       “My body feels like a cage lit on _fire._ I can’t just stay there in my room like this anymore. The older I get it seems the more insatiable my being becomes.” Sherlock frowns, looking ashamed of himself and Watson feels more sympathy tug on his heart.   _He’s just a child_ , he tells himself, _and already he’s dealt with so much…_ _But he’s not a child,_ his hindbrain interjects, _he’s old enough to be mated and he’s ready, it’s coming off him in heaps…_

        Watson’s cock twitches in his trousers as another wave of melting butterscotch caresses his nose. It wouldn’t take long to lure the lad back to his place and stick his knot in that sweet arse, his hindbrain’s right, the boy _is_ ready and he’d be so perfect, so innocent and yet this is wrong. He should just leave, go back to his fiancée and pretend he’d never met the lad.

        Watson places money on the table and moves to rise from his seat, but Sherlock stops him by grabbing his arm. “Wait,” the boy pleads, “take me with you?”

        Watson wants to deny him, but his trousers tighten at the desperation practically dripping from those words. But he’s engaged to a terrific beta woman and there was a reason he chose a beta—he’s not one to bend to the will of biology and he definitely won’t break all those years of resolve over one adolescent—but he can feel the warmth from Sherlock’s arm through his coat and the way the lad is looking at him with those huge bourbon eyes, irises totally eclipsed by pupil, hunger evident in them, the protesting words can’t help but escape the doctor.

         He thinks briefly of leaving Sherlock in the bar alone with the Alphas who want to knot him and he almost growls, because the thought of someone else touching the lad is enough to send him in a careless rage.  

         Calming himself, he acquiesces, “Alright, you can come home with me; I’ll take you in so you can wait for your heat to break. I’ll even put you on some suppressants—”

        “My parents despise them, they say they’re unnatural.”

        “What contradicting parents you have; they want you to stay locked up during your heats, but refuse to put you on suppressants,” Watson contemplates out loud.

        Sherlock gives him an impish smirk. “I never claimed they were rational people, and I’ll go home with you, but I need to know your name first. What kind of Omega do you take me for?”

        Watson gives him a smirk of his own, “Oh, just an Omega who comes to sleazy bars in the middle of the night for a knot from a nameless Alpha just to defy his strict parents. Am I correct?”

         Sherlock’s dark eyes flash mischievously, “There’s more to me than what you see,” he responds, rising from his seat before walking past Watson. The lad’s scent practically forces the doctor to follow him out of the pub and into the cool night air.

         Once they’re both outside, Watson assesses the lad’s height. He’s perhaps a foot shorter and the way he walks, lightly swaying those hips, makes Watson believe that maybe the boy knows more about what he’s doing than he leads on.

         John is so engrossed in his thoughts and studying the lethally sharp dip of those hips that he doesn’t notice that Sherlock has stopped walking. When he looks around, he realizes they are in a dark alley.

         The only sound that can be heard is the lad’s hard panting, “Your name?” he asks and Watson knows he doesn’t owe this boy anything, but his very _being_ feels as though it would be irrevocably diminished if he doesn’t have **more** of the lad and he realizes that he’s powerless to the boy’s pull, like gravity, and like gravity, he’s helpless to defy him.

         “My name’s John Watson,” he declares. Sherlock seems to float the name around his brain, perhaps testing to see if it sounds recognizable. Watson sees the exact moment when he realizes the name holds no familiarity, as the boy’s eyes flash again and next thing Watson knows a pair of warm, plush lips are on his.

        John can’t even think of how wrong it is because the boy tastes faintly like the beer he didn’t finish as well as some sort of sinful temptation that sets Watson’s nerves on fire. Unconsciously, he leans Sherlock up against the alley wall and grinds down so the boy can feel his arousal. And the whimper Sherlock lets out is so utterly obscene that he has to forcibly calm himself or this will be over before it even begins.

       “God, you’re so innocent.” Watson hears himself say, “Would you even know what to do with a knot?”

       Sherlock doesn’t answer, instead he takes Watson’s hand and places it on the swell of an arse cheek, he’s wet—no—he’s positively _leaking_ and Watson’s so hard it _hurts,_ his mind wants to weep for the tenacity and willpower he’s lost, but his body is too preoccupied with what it can have, what it can fill, to care anymore.  He needs to _take, claim, mark, **taste**_ all of Sherlock, and his mind, clinging to rationality, finally loses its battle against his body, because the boy is panting again, as if he’s run the whole of Trafalgar Square. Watson can’t help but bury his nose in the warm skin of Sherlock’s exposed throat, letting the deliciously sweet scent envelope him again.

       “You’d look so pretty on my knot, stretched full and begging me to move. And those _lips,_ they could make saints sin, boy. I bet you’re not even real; bet you’ve just walked out of someone’s dirtiest, naughtiest dreams, ready to lead ‘em to hell. You’re temptation and corruption in a sweet, little package, aren’t you?” Watson whispers into his ear.

         Sherlock groans, and then he bites his lip again and this time Watson doesn’t stop himself, he leans in and trails his tongue across the abused flesh while giving the hand still on the boy’s arse a rough squeeze.

         In a ragged, breathless voice, Sherlock softly whispers, “I haven’t tempted you into doing anything you didn’t already want to, doctor. You can still walk away now.” John thinks of Mary for a second, wonders what she'd say if she found out. Perhaps it would be better for him if he ignores this little temptation and he just carries on walking home. But then his hindbrain informs him that this opportunity to have a gasping, sweet smelling, writhing Omega in his grasp is rare. Frustrated, he sighs; a warm gust of air in the cool London night.

         He takes a step back and tries to will his hindbrain into submission. He remembers that Omegas aren’t themselves when they’re in heat. It makes them say and do things they wouldn’t normally.

        “I said I’d take you with me, but we can’t... Do anything.  Understand?” Watson takes his arms down from where they’ve pinned Sherlock’s to the chilly bricks of the alley wall. He levels his gaze with the boy and hopes he sounds convincing.

        Sherlock smirks and runs his fingers through his unruly hair, making it stick out in a thousand different directions. He drags his tongue across his red bottom lip and then, leaning in closer, he says “The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” before pressing his hips to Watson’s. And there would never be a worse time for his body to betray him than now in the middle of an alley where anyone could see them. He groans before he can stop himself and grabbing Sherlock’s hips, rubs against him, enjoying the delicious friction.

       The Alpha in him wants to throw the Omega over his shoulder like a barbarian and cart him off to somewhere private, somewhere they wouldn't be disturbed, but rationality sits there like a weight in his chest, making him halt immediately.

       “I’m serious.” He hisses, though it holds no steam. He’s too preoccupied watching the slight bob of the boy’s Adam’s Apple, wondering if it will taste honey-sweet if he just laved it with his tongue, to stop Sherlock as he tiptoes to steal a kiss to Watson’s parted lips. And Watson--God deliver him--can’t stop himself, he leans into the kiss and stares at the lad as if he just knows he’s dreaming, because Sherlock can’t be real, he just can’t.

       No one deserves to look so enticing and taste so delectable. He never even considered himself as someone who likes Omegas, he considers himself a man who favored strictly betas and women rather, but Sherlock isn’t a normal Omega. He smells too damn good and the way he seems to pull Watson in, as if Watson has no choice but to allow it, makes him both intrigued and _hard._

      “I’ll be on my best behavior, _sir._ ” Sherlock promises, pulling away from the kiss just as Watson’s really beginning to enjoy it. The doctor doesn’t miss the emphasis on the last word and the rush of blood leaving his head to make his dick stand at attention makes Watson dizzy. He has to think of sick patients and illness just to will himself from giving up this whole ‘Righteous Man’ charade and taking what he wants right this bloody minute.

       He knows that Mary isn’t at 221B Baker street at this moment as she went to the country to visit her Uncle and right now he couldn’t be happier for the fact, though he means every word, he isn’t going to fuck Sherlock and if this doesn’t score him extra points on the saint meter, then the whole world can be lit on fire because he is. Not. Going. To. Fuck. Sherlock.

       The Omega reaches out a hand and gestures to some general direction with a smug look on his face, which--considering he’s in heat and is about to follow home a stranger he just met--shouldn’t even belong there, yet, Watson doesn’t ponder on it for too long, especially once Sherlock says, “After you,” and his cock does a little jump, expecting to hear that heavenly “Sir.” that never comes.

     Watson’s going to burn in Hell for sure, but what a lovely way to burn.

 ** **  
  
  
****


	2. Of Sweets and Seduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My poor body...requires it; I am driven on by the flesh, and he must needs go that the devil drives."  
> All's Well that Ends Well - Shakespeare
> 
> Watson finally gets a taste of Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I am so genuinely sorry this chapter took so long to be posted. I've been really busy with school and a bunch of other things that would take too much time to mention. Just know that I'm back and I don't plan to be gone that long ever again! (^_^) In turn, hopefully I injected enough smutty goodness into this chapter to make up for it.
> 
> I want to give a special thanks to all those who've read/kudos'd/subscribed/everything to this story! I am forever grateful to the responses this story has received. Thank you guys so much! I also want to thank my betas 95Echelon, Abel and Secret for the much needed help and inspiration. And for giving me the kick in the pants I need to keep writing!
> 
> Hope you all like this chapter! <3

****

**Of Sweets and Seduction**

       

_“To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.”_

_― Federico García Lorca_

* * *

 

       Mrs. Hudson is already in bed when they arrive; the lights are all off and if the clock tower blaring in the distance is any indication, then it’s too bloody early in the morning for any self-respecting Brit to be awake...

     Watson wants to tell Sherlock that he can go anytime, that if he’s unsure or he’s having second thoughts he’s free to leave. His hindbrain barks at him that such a notion is ridiculous. It was torture leading Sherlock to the carriage. With every step they took Watson could swear the boy was emitting more and more of that indescribable scent. The drive to the lodging was completely, unbearably exhilarating with the ache in Watson’s pants taking every opportunity to make itself known. Giving up now, after surviving all of that, would make his torture pointless.

     The part of Watson that is still hanging on to the edge of reason reminds him that he’s the older person and that means he’s responsible.  Responsible people make wise decisions. The wisest decision would be to get Sherlock as far away from him as possible, that way they wouldn’t do anything they’d regret.

     However, that other part of Watson invites the lad inside, and the urge returns. Before he can stop himself he’s moving into the boy’s space, gripping Sherlock’s hair and tipping those perfect, plush lips to his. And it’s like drowning, sinking, going under, deep into the depths of lust where everything else is overrated: air, rules, society. The only thing that matters is Sherlock. All that should ever matter is Sherlock.

     He feels soft, warm hands grabbing at his coat, pulling him closer and as the kiss becomes more urgent, more desperate, he realizes that Sherlock is getting wetter. It is in that moment Watson pries his lips from the lad’s. He wants to do this, he’s probably never wanted anything more in his life, but this is also about Sherlock, and Watson needs to know that the boy is completely ready for what’s about to happen. Not just ready physically, but in all other aspects as well.

     He takes in a full breath. “Are you certain you want this, Sherlock? I can always take you home or I can tend to you until your heat passes, we don’t have to—”

     Watson is cut off by a finger to his lips and a glimpse of those dark eyes _begging_ , pleading with him.  “I need this.” is all Sherlock says, sounding broken beyond repair already, and Watson has barely even touched him.

Watson feels himself crossing the point of no return. He had always thought it rather careless of Alphas and Omegas to mate with no caution, no fear of the future, without any self-control. But now he realizes that it isn’t something that can be judged so easily, it isn’t simple. For now, it physically hurts him to be standing so far from the lad, and he knows it will hurt worse if Sherlock were to leave and never return. A small part of him knows this is dangerous, the mere fact that he can’t walk away now should mean something, but he doesn’t care for any of that. He wants this because he needs this, and everything else be damned. If there are consequences, he’ll deal with them later. For now, all that matters is them.

     He leads Sherlock to his room and immediately starts to undress. The lad stands there, staring at him, but the way he’s looking at John, biting his lip with that mischievous glint in his eye, makes Watson’s body flare with burning desire.

      Before Watson realizes it, he’s got Sherlock’s face cradled in his hands and he’s kissing him within an inch of his life. It’s all urgent, desperate. He doesn’t try for any finesse but from the way Sherlock’s practically falling apart in his hands, he doesn’t need to.

     It doesn’t take long for either of them to get naked after that, and once John has Sherlock bare and writhing beneath him, he loses it. The part of him that should know to take this slow, as this is the lad’s first time, has escaped to the darkest recesses of his mind, bowing down to his hindbrain, which is having a field day watching Sherlock.

     And dammit if Sherlock isn’t everything Watson didn’t know was missing from his life. He looks like a gift from the heavens. And Watson wonders what he did right in a past life to deserve such a thing. Sherlock’s eyes are closed while he chants John’s name like a prayer, his lips deliciously swollen and red, and every now and then his hips rise to meet Watson’s and it feels too damn good. But Watson knows they haven’t even started the fun stuff yet.

    For awhile, Watson just stares because the lad is gorgeous - every part of him - it’s like staring at a painting or a sculpture that an artist captured of the perfect interpretation of sexual yearning. Sherlock is truly a sight to behold.

   The lad’s pleading eyes rise to meet Watson’s and they burn with unresolved hunger. Once again John finds himself being pulled under and brought back to the matter at hand.   

    After sucking a bruising mark to Sherlock’s beautiful, smooth chest, Watson works his way down, placing burning kisses on every inch of exposed skin his lips can find until he reaches the junction between Sherlock’s thighs. His breath ghosts over the bulging member and the lad shudders. It’s a mouthwatering sight, watching Sherlock come undone; it makes Watson want more, to see that innocent face beg him to do filthy things to that untouched body.

    Watson promises himself that he’ll give Sherlock what he wants another time, because he _is_ going to have Sherlock in his bed again, indubitably. But for now, he wants to hear the boy _scream._

     John takes the whimpering Omega’s legs and hoists them up until Sherlock’s ankles are resting on his shoulders. From this view, he can see Sherlock’s hole and it’s as beautiful as the rest of him. Pink and wet, it practically winks at him. Watson wants to taste, but he holds off - there’s something he needs to hear before they can continue.

    “Come on John,” Sherlock beseeches, “need you.”

    Watson nods, tearing his gaze away from that glorious arse to stare at the two obsidian orbs burning into his cerulean ones. “Sherlock,” he gasps, “I want you to say it.”

    Sherlock whimpers and tries to move his hips, but Watson’s herculean grip doesn’t let up. “What?” He frowns.

    “I need you to tell me how bad you want this.”

    Despite being so far along in his heat, Sherlock, bless his soul, still has enough presence of mind to understand what Watson is asking him to do. “I want it _Sir_ , badly. Need it, need you.”

    That’s all it takes for Watson to dip his head between Sherlock’s legs. He teases at first, giving little licks here and there. The lad tastes incredible, better than any treat he’s ever had. But Sherlock soon starts making these desperate, breathy moans that go straight to Watson’s cock, and Watson soon finds himself burying his tongue inside the lad, desperately trying to get as much as that butterscotch slick in his system as possible.

     That’s how orgasm number one comes for Sherlock. Shooting all over himself, so hard some of it catches on Watson’s chin. The doctor marvels at his little Omega, coming without even a hand on his dick.

      Sherlock blushes furiously at Watson’s attention, but instead of looking demure, as it probably would have if he were clothed, he looks positively provocative, flushed all over with his pert pink nipples budding under Watson’s gaze.

     The sweet-candy scent of Sherlock’s slick hangs in the air, his taste on Watson’s tongue along with the musky, earthy smell of Alpha. John unconsciously licks his lips, tasting Sherlock again and groaning as his dick twitches. His Alpha instincts are going wild, never once being assaulted by such an uncontested stimulus such as this, but Watson tries, honestly he does, to calm it down. After all, he doesn’t want to scare Sherlock away.

      But Sherlock seems less timid than he was before and when Watson directs his full attention back to the lad, the sight he sees is enough to put him in gaol or worse, straight to the deepest, darkest, burning pit of hellfire available. Because Sherlock isn’t sitting there watching him anymore - he’s gripping the headboard, face bowed and back arched, presenting himself to Watson. His perfect, round arse practically leaking on the sheets. The doctor’s mouth runs dry and soon he finds himself by Sherlock’s ear, whispering obscenely dirty things to him. Telling him how good he’s going to fuck him, have him so full that the only knot he’ll ever want, ever know is Watson’s. And Sherlock cries out, that perfectly polite “Sir” that has John lining himself up to the lad’s hole and thrusting in.

     Sherlock is virgin-tight, even with the amount of slick he’s producing, the grip on Watson’s cock is unbelievable. John tries to move again, but Sherlock steadies him.

    "A-are you hurting?” Watson asks through the blinding haze of pleasure that is making it incredibly difficult to maintain presence of mind.

    “No, I-it’s just a foreign feeling. That’s all.” Then after a beat, “Please, fuck me _Sir_ , need you, God, need you to _move_.”

     And Watson, feeling as if he’ll die from this, finally starts to go at a steady pace. He quickly loses the battle between his hindbrain and his sense and soon he finds that he’s snapped his hips forward, sheathing himself fully into the lad. He doesn’t stop to enjoy the glorious feeling, but instead pulls out only to thrust back in even harder.

     The only sounds coming from Sherlock below him are _yes, more, harder, faster_. Watson can’t help it; he does as he’s told, fucking Sherlock as if control’s a word unknown to him.

      Sherlock comes again, way before Watson is even ready to be finished with him. His arse clenches around John’s dick but it only serves to make Watson fuck him deeper, leaving angry palm prints on Sherlock’s arse cheeks as he thrusts like a madman.

      The sweat-slick slip of their bodies sliding together, Sherlock’s tight trembling channel, the gasps being punched out of his own body and the bliss sparking behind his eyelids is becoming too much for Watson, he feels his knot beginning to swell. He tries to calm himself, but Sherlock definitely isn’t helping; the way he’s moving is mesmerizing and the sounds he’s making are so lewd that Watson feels as if he’s walked into a dream, a dirty, obscene dream where he’s the lucky person who gets to have this.

      He hasn’t realized that he’s paused to watch Sherlock for some time- practically having the lad do most of the work - when burnished amber eyes pin him with a wild, craving stare compelling him to move like a man possessed, speeding up the pace once more and losing himself once again.

      His orgasm comes like a bolt from the blue, shattering all thoughts and feelings not primarily related to those of overwhelming pleasure. He’s helpless against it, only just remembering that the warm, yielding body below him needs to feel this, that Sherlock needs to be on the same level with him. So he reaches down and strokes the lad’s member once, twice, before Sherlock is crying out and coming over Watson’s hand.

      And Watson, on instinct, sinks his teeth into that soft exposed neck and groans at the taste of blood filling his mouth. The Alpha he is thrills at the chance he’s taken of actually _marking_ the Omega, both inside and out.

      “You’re so marvelous,” he hears himself say, rubbing Sherlock’s back soothingly while he licks the claiming mark he’s made to the boy’s flesh.

     Sherlock looks back at him, eyes still wild but at least a little more calm than they were before.

      As if he suddenly regained every drop of seductive evil in the span of seconds, Sherlock relinquishes the headboard and adjusts himself so he’s fully sitting in Watson’s lap, careful not to hurt himself from where they’re connected.

    He manages to whimper as more of Watson’s spill pumps into him.

    “So,” Sherlock whispers after a short while, planting a soft kiss to Watson’s shoulder. “What shall happen now?”

     John can’t help it, he smiles. “Now we wait.”

    “And when we disentangle?” Something darker than innocence flashes behind those wide eyes.

     Watson swallows, feeling his treacherous dick twitch in interest. “We sleep, or...we can do it all over again…”

       Sherlock gives him one of those breathtaking grins that Watson hadn’t realized was possible until now. Honestly, could the boy be any more charming? He places another kiss to John’s jaw before finding his lips and it is suddenly clear what his intentions are.

      They won’t be getting much sleep after all, but Watson finds that he doesn’t mind one bit...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so it was a little short, but sometimes less is more. :)  
> Hope you all enjoyed it! More to come soon! And there will be more porn, but there will be plot too. ;)   
> <3 you all!


	3. If Only For A Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're a holy fool all colored blue  
> Red feet upon the floor  
> You do such damage, how do you manage?  
> Tryna crawl in back for more."
> 
> \- Florence and the Machine "What Kind of Man"
> 
> The perilous morning after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone for reading/giving me kudos/supporting this fic, thank you so much! 
> 
> I want to thank my betas Abel and HaleyD95 for the amazing help on this chapter! You guys are so awesome and I don't know what I would do without you. :D
> 
> For anyone wondering, the quotes I use may not make sense in the context of the story or even within the chapters themselves, but this is because I'm trying to follow a certain theme and sometimes I'm a bit random.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this chapter!

 

If Only For A Night

_I went out on Lower Broadway and I felt that place within,_

_That hollow place where martyrs weep and angels play with sin._

_… There are those who worship loneliness, I'm not one of them._

\- ‘Dirge’ Bob Dylan

****  


* * *

   The following day, Watson awakens to a certainly _odd_ sensation. Of course there’s a bit of soreness, in his leg particularly, but it is not uncommon for him to wake like this. However, there’s a new feeling. Something akin to distress. At first he lays there, trying to make sense of this mood, but then it becomes very overwhelming and soon he finds that he can not lay still.

   And then he smells it: Omega. And not just any Omega, _his_ Omega. Everything comes crashing down on him. All the memories, meeting Sherlock, _mating_.  He mated, with someone. He bonded. With an Omega. He _claimed_ an Omega.  And it felt, _different_ , not bad, but different.

   Another wave of distress washes over him along with a sense of urgency. He doesn’t waste any more time. He rushes to put on his shirt and trousers, and follows the scent to the foyer where Sherlock is standing. Relief floods him as he realizes that Sherlock is fine, physically at least, but then the anxiety comes back. He’s not sure why he’s feeling this until it hits him. These sensations aren’t his own; they’re Sherlock’s. And it doesn’t take long for him to find the source of the Omega’s distress. When he looks up there is Mrs. Hudson, staring at the lad as if she knows everything that happened and is trying her best not to blow a gasket.

   Mrs. Hudson was always one to turn a blind eye to things that she figured weren’t any of her business, such as the times when Watson would have harrowing nightmares of the war and would stay up most of the night until it bled into morning, reading or pacing, doing anything but sleep, or when he showed a particular interest in crime-solving and would often entertain constables in his study. But this time, even he knows she can’t just sweep this under the rug.

   And as if it isn't obvious enough what he and Sherlock have done; Watson’s pheromones are all over the lad who’s crazy sex hair and rumpled clothing are strong enough signs for themselves: the whole foyer smells of sex.

   Watson hadn’t planned for Mrs. Hudson to meet Sherlock, but then again it wasn’t as if he planned for any of this.

   Sherlock senses his presence and the anxiety that was running rampage within him, vanishes, calming Watson as well.

   Watson wants to touch him, to reassure him that everything’s fine. So he does. Sherlock melts into it and then he turns those eyes, with their color of sunlight shining through whiskey, on him. He sees flashes of many things: surprise, confusion, but also familiarity and relief. It awakens something new inside him; the urge to protect.

   “Well, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll just be going to the shop now.” Mrs. Hudson says, regaining her composure and trying to escape from the scene of the crime unscathed.

   Watson clears his throat and attempts to stop her from walking away.

   “Now Mrs. Hudson, it really isn’t what you think.” That is when she turns to him.

   “Doctor, I know when something has nothing to do with me. I’ll just be on my way. If you’ll excuse me.” She motions to move past him before halting and leaning in to whisper, “Ms. Morstan will be returning from her trip to the country by this afternoon. When all of this meets with disaster, I would like no part of it. And, I must admit Doctor, that I didn’t think you had it in you. Now, good day.”

   Watson doesn’t try to stop her again and lets her leave with nary a look back.

   He’s still staring at the shut door when he hears Sherlock speak from behind him.

   “Well she’s quite lovely.” The lad quips.

   He turns around to find the lad unapologetically staring back at him.

   “I went about seeking the bathing room and I stumbled upon her. Poor woman, must’ve thought she’d seen a spirit. Can’t quite blame her, s’not as if I was expecting her either.” Sherlock continues.

   Watson studies Sherlock, who looks much better than he did the previous night. He no longer seems like he’ll self-destruct if he doesn’t get a knot, but more stable. He still looks delectable, but that can’t be helped.

   “It appears as if your heat has broken.” John states. “That’s certainly a good--” He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence because Sherlock’s lips connect with his with a ferocity he didn’t think the young man was capable of. Watson gives as good as he gets, surprise fading and lust filling in its place, hindbrain rejoicing as he takes control, turning them so that Sherlock’s the one pressed against the door. His lips find the bruise where the lad’s shoulder meets his neck and John bites down softly, causing Sherlock to groan and a growl to erupt from Watson’s throat.

   Their lips meet again and it’s paradise, Watson gets so wrapped up in Sherlock that he doesn’t realize that the lad’s slowly undressing before him until the rosy peak of a nipple comes into his view and he latches onto it, causing Sherlock to cry out.

   John chances a glance up at Sherlock who looks like a debauched angel. Watson doesn’t consider himself very religious, but he knows he could see himself worshipping Sherlock anytime, anywhere. He wraps the lad’s legs around his and lifts Sherlock, his hands holding up that perfect already-wet arse and they both moan.

   “Are you trying to kill me?” Watson asks, because he’s entirely sold on that and nothing can convince him otherwise.

   Sherlock nods in the negative and then says in the most serious he’s been since last night, “I want you to fuck me here in the foyer.”

   John sighs and presses his face against Sherlock’s chest, inhaling that amazing scent of butterscotch as well as his own musky aroma. Watson’s glad that Sherlock hadn’t tried too hard to scrub away their mingled scent from his skin as it makes the lad all the more real instead of too dreamlike. As if he needed anymore reassurance that last night happened or that this is happening now.

   If there were ever a worse time for John to remember Mary, it’s right now. Cerulean eyes meet bourbon ones as the weight of the situation comes down on him.

   Sherlock, sensing his mate’s anxiety, inquires, “What’s wrong?”

   Watson gently places Sherlock down - he’d never live it down if he damaged him - well any more than he already has - and stares at the lad wide-eyed.

   “It’s my fiancée, she’s returning today.”

   Sherlock seems to ponder this for a moment, then he says with much bravado: “Then that means I must leave.” Sadness fills them both at this realization.  The urge to protect flares up in Watson again, but this time it’s much fiercer than before; he can’t let Sherlock out of his sight, not now, not ever. He wants to protect his Omega and he can’t do that if Sherlock is no longer around.

   “We’ve mated.” He states, because this is serious, this is _real_ , and it is not something that can just be brushed off. Sherlock seems to be having none of it.

   “That is a perfectly normal thing that humans do. Or that is what I perceived from our discussion last night.”

   “Yes, but it is also something that many people avoid.  We’re connected now, our minds, bodies, souls are one. You can feel my emotions and so it is the same with me.” Every word makes Watson’s stomach twist with unease but Sherlock needs to understand this.

   The lad isn’t dense, by any means and the comprehension breaks across his face as the meaning of Watson’s words catch up with him.

   “This is not good. This is really not good.”

   “Yes, these circumstances are less than ideal.” Watson agrees, sighing from a great deal of exhaustion.

   “What of my parents? They’ll have me on the street. I’ll be a homeless Omega.” Tears well up in Sherlock’s unseeing eyes as pictures of it happening pass through his head, and he looks away from Watson for a moment.

   John, without thinking, reaches out to hold him and the lad quickly accepts the comfort. “I will not let that happen to you. Do you hear me Sherlock? We’ll overcome this, no matter what it takes.”

   Sherlock goes quiet, but he nods and that sparks some hope in Watson. His Omega is here with him, is safe and in his arms, and no harm will come to him. “I promise you, it will be alright.” He says, holding Sherlock tighter. Then, after a beat, he warns: “It might be wiser, not to tell your parents. If you think that they will punish you or worse, put you out on the streets, then I advise you not to tell them, at least for now.”

   The lad points those wide, dark eyes on John and frowns. “But wouldn’t that be lying by omission? And what if they can sense it on me?”

   Watson gently cups Sherlock’s face. “They won’t. Believe me, they’ll be so happy to see that you’ve returned that they won’t be able to notice that something’s changed. You’re a smart lad, everything will be alright.”

   Sherlock nods, but he doesn’t seem wholly convinced. So many thoughts and feelings are bombarding Watson at once, including a crushing guilt. He ignores it all in favor of comforting the lad who adds: “And what of your fiancée? What will you tell her?”

   Watson lets out a pained sigh. “The truth.”

   Sherlock breaks from his hold. “You can’t do that! She’ll leave you!”

   “Very well,” John shrugs, “But she deserves to know.”

   The Omega gapes at Watson in disbelief, before saying with great admiration and some dubiousness dripping from his words. “You’re crazy.”

   “It needs to be done and it may be insane, but my uttermost concern is you at the moment. I can deal with Mary. A relationship will never survive with dishonesty.”

   Sherlock’s face lights up with curiosity. “Do you love her?” The question throws Watson off guard.

   “L-love is a strange, powerful emotion.” He stammers. The lad folds his arms and narrows his eyes at the older man.

   “Doesn’t answer my question.”

   If someone had asked him a few days ago if he loved his fiancée, the reply would be an automatic “yes.” It didn’t have to be the truth, just as “I’m fine” didn’t have to be the truth when someone asked how you were doing. It was a socially conventional response and Watson was aware of that. It didn’t matter how he felt, all that mattered was that Mary was happy and no one suspected a thing.

   “We’re getting married, what do you think?” Watson asks. Sherlock frowns.

   “If what I thought mattered, I’d be the one going down the aisle with her and not you.”  John bites his lip - a nervous habit he was accustomed to doing in his solitude - finally he answers:

   “I’m not sure.” Of course, Sherlock senses Watson’s despair and reaches up to touch him on the shoulder.

   “Then why marry her?”

   “For lack of a better word; it’s complicated.” Watson admits. The lad groans in frustration.

   “Why do adults always profess that? A situation is only as complicated as one makes it to be.” He states.

   “When did you get so clever?” Watson asks, mood lifting by a fraction.

   “Since always. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll be going home. I’ll tell my parents that I snuck out to meet some of my mates, they won’t be too mad if I tell them I’ve been hanging out with the Rochester boys,” he grimaces, “But they’ll never suspect a thing.” For the first time in a while, Watson smiles.

   “I take it you’ve lied to them before.” Proud, Sherlock winks mischievously.

   “But of course, how else would I survive in that house?” John shrugs, then replies:

    "I’ll wait here for Mary. Do you need anything? Cab fare?”

   “I’m not some lady of the night. I can make my own way home.” Sherlock scoffs.

   “But it’s not safe.”

   “And so is getting mated to a stranger, but I’ve managed so far.” Sherlock winks again and Watson frowns because he’s right.

   So far, this day has been one of the strangest in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!   
> Next chapter coming soon!


	4. Hand Over Heart, I'm Praying (That I'm Gonna Make it Out Alive)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I burn, I pine, I perish."  
> \- William Shakespeare, The Taming of the Shrew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. *blushes furiously* I'm sorry for the looong delay, I was on a (sort of ) vacation and for some reason, no matter how much I tried, I just couldn't write. :( But here I am, and I must say I'm pretty excited about this chapter. :D 
> 
> Yes, the title is taken from 'The Heart Wants What it Wants' by Selena Gomez. I ran out of ideas and I found it strangely fitting. :) Anywho, I'd like to thank my betas Abel, Haley and Secret for the much needed help. I want to thank everyone who has read/kudos'd/subscribed/bookmarked/everything. I am so in awe of the responses my Sherlock fics have gotten. I honestly feel so lucky and forever grateful. :)
> 
> Also, I hope you all enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. :)

_****_

Hand Over Heart, I'm Praying (That I'm Gonna Make it Out Alive)

 

_“The Saints can’t help me now...”_

\- _‘Howl’_ Florence and the Machine

 

It’s dark and evening hasn’t yet approached, much to Sherlock’s annoyance. It doesn’t help that his expansive bedroom is also bitterly cold. Damn London and it’s cursed proclivity to becoming gloomy at the worst of times. Someday, he’s moving out of here, to somewhere permanently warm.

He stares at the window across from him, locked now because of his parents’ displeasure at his latest escapade, and wonders what it would be like if he were born a Beta like them as well as his governess. If they’d be easier on him because they’d have less to worry about, and if they’d treat him as if he were an actual human being instead of some rare, fragile gem that they had to protect every waking second.

And yet, he was considered one of the lucky ones. To not be in a brothel or forced onto the street because of his status.

Many would assume his life was perfect; he was born into a wealthy family who loved him even though he was an Omega. He had heard that Omegas - though rare, but still considered insignificant by society, especially by the upper class - had even resorted to doing devastating things to themselves to deal with the pressure. He had so much resentment for people who hurt, ostracized, or despised Omegas. Someday he’d be someone to make a difference. He’ll start a revolution or an uprising, whatever it took to make people see the error of their ways. And if his parents ever stopped being so naïve, maybe he’d let them help.  

Luckily, they had been so happy to see him, of course, and understandably distressed by his sudden disappearance that they hadn’t asked too many questions or evidently noticed that something was off. When he’d explained that he’d been with the Rochester brothers, his mother, who’d seemed the most troubled, with all her crying and refusing to release him from her constricting embrace, had calmed a little by that news. His father, on the other hand, had scolded him for leaving and had told him that being out on his heat was a ridiculous thing to do.

Sherlock wanted to tell him that locking him in his room was also, but decided to hold his tongue. After all, arguing with his parents never helped as they were both too stubborn and stuck in their ignorance to listen to him.

So he stayed silent, pursing his lips, he took the scolding and waited until his father was finished before asking if he could retreat to his room. And when they’d sent him off and he was safe in his seclusion, he sat down on the carpeted floor, sighing from sheer exhaustion and the relief of escaping virtually unscathed.

Now, as he lay in bed, reflecting on his life and questioning the absurdity of it all, he can’t help but feel grateful for Watson at least, because although Watson pretends to be normal and wholesome, presumably to be accepted, Sherlock knows he’s just as deviant and unprecedented as he.

* * *

Watson paces across the floor of the foyer, losing track of the number of times he’s done this already.

A million thoughts are circulating in his head, each one more distressing than the last. He’s been spending the better part of the day and evening trying to come up with the best and least hurtful way to tell Mary about Sherlock. And he’s been failing miserably.

In all honesty, there is no easy way to tell your fiancée that you’ve gone and mated with someone else while they were away, and that this someone was a bright, young Omega lad who also happened to be male. He surmises that at best she’ll leave him, and at worst... well, he doesn’t want to think about that.

And Watson, who is usually fantastic with words, cannot think of a single sentence that would make Mary consider not murdering him.

Mrs. Hudson still hasn’t returned either, actually sticking to her word of wanting nothing to do with this and avoiding the lodging until it all cools down. If it ever does, that is. God does he envy her right now.

More and more time passes and still Mary has not returned - it would be an understatement to say that he’s worried. Mary was always punctual, no matter what situation she was in, she made it top priority to be on time. And though he found punctuality a trivial matter and certainly not one he would uphold as an utmost concern, he still respected the fact that it was always important to her. _Oh come now, John. We must always be proper, hold our head high and never give anyone a reason to think that we’re anything less than a lady and her gentleman._

He can’t help the mounting anxiety that is threatening to consume his mind. He knows, rationally, that out of the many reasons for her delay, most of them are probably benign but he can’t help his brain from coming to the worst, drastic conclusions. Of course, he’d be better rooted into the land of logic and sense if he had gotten a better night’s sleep the previous night. Maybe he’d be a little more lucid as well, if his world hadn’t been carefully divested of everything that made it simple and was now veering off into space without control.

But who was he to complain? As guilty as he felt for feeling this, he had to admit that he’s never felt more _free_. Certainly, he may not know what exactly he has gotten himself into but he does know that if it makes him feel this _alive,_  then soulbonding was the best thing to have ever happened to him. And that was the sad thing - he had been denying himself for so long, trying his best to be content in a world that he didn’t belong in to please God knows who when the only thing he ever needed was to listen to his reckless, untamed heart. _Maybe Sherlock was right; a situation is only as complicated as one makes it to be..._

He smiles, thinking of Sherlock, unable to help it now, even if he wanted to. There’s a gentle hum thrumming through him, a sign that the Omega is safe and sound. He’s grateful for that, and subsequently, his unease lessens by a fraction.

He goes to make tea to calm his still shot nerves. Time passes and though it seems to be dragging in lulls, with which he usually combats the resulting boredom by reading a book or studying, he finds the torrential panic seeping into his bones and making attempts to concentrate on anything else but bothersome, irrational thoughts, futile.

It doesn’t take him long to start pacing again. It confuses Watson, as he usually prides himself on his patience, but now it seems he can’t sit still until he sees Mary walk through the door.

_That may be_ , his mind supplies him, _a long time from now._

* * *

Sherlock is sitting at the table alone, eating his supper when he feels a billow of distress rise up within him. It’s unfounded as there is no imminent danger around him as far as he can tell.

After a beat he realizes that it must be Watson that is feeling anxious and without even having to think about it, he rises to his feet, his bowl of soup already forgotten.

As he turns to go fetch his coat, he almost collides with his mother who is standing at the foot of the stairs, watching him with concern in her hazel eyes. “Wherever are you going?” She inquires, a flash of suspicion darkening her tone.

“Oh hello mother, I didn’t want to disturb you or father. I was going to take a walk.” He smiles, easily lying due to many years of practice.

“At this time of night? Have you lost your senses? And you haven’t finished your supper. Are you feeling alright? Are you coming down with something?” His mother is suddenly everywhere at once, poking and prodding him, forcing him to slowly back away just so he can get some space.

He can’t help but think that all of this is irrelevant and delaying the one important thing he needs to do, that is, to find Watson.

“Mother, please. I’m fine. I’m a little fatigued and I wanted to take a walk in the hopes that I could wake myself up.” He lets out a convincing yawn that maybe is a little too convincing, for his mother takes his arm and leads him to his room.

After ensuring that he’s tucked into his massive bed, she sends for one of the maids, Gertrude, to keep an eye on him. And when the ever busy, ever stressed Gertrude, probably the only person Sherlock trusts in the house, comes to check up on him, she smiles.

“Fixing to sneak out again are ya?” She asks, her bright, all-knowing eyes sparkling with youthful mischief.  

“Well I’m not picking this lock for the sheer enjoyment of it.” Sherlock mumbles, though his lips quirk at the corners. He’s at one of the giant windows skillfully cracking the lock open, to Gertrude’s amusement.

“Don’t worry, I’ll tell ‘em you’re very tired and you need to be left alone. A growing boy needs his sleep after all.”

He goes over to hug her, getting his long arms to wrap around her tiny waist easily.  She pats him on the head. “Be safe.” She cautions and he smirks, “Will do, ma’am.” Before walking over to the window and climbing out.

* * *

Watson’s about to just give up and go looking for Mary when someone bursts through the door. He sees the familiar mop of dark hair and feels overwhelming relief, as well as confusion, flood his being.

“What are you doing here?” He questions, eyes brightening with delight while his heart beat stutters in his chest. He reaches for his Omega and wraps a protective arm around him. Sherlock tucks his head under Watson’s chin and they stay there for a little while, silent.

The hum is back and thrumming more insistently and with its buzzing comes a certain calm as if there is nothing to worry about, everything is fine.

“Your disquietude made me come over to see if you were alright. I felt it - the pull. I had to defend my Alpha.” Sherlock says, nuzzling his face in Watson’s dress shirt. “From whatever it was that was causing unrest.”

Watson is taken aback at first - he can’t believe Sherlock is actually here, risking everything because he thought Watson was in trouble. It’s touching but also bothersome, because this just proves all the more that their bond is real, so real that caution isn’t even something that either of them can consider if they believe the other one is in danger.

A soulbond, especially one as strong as theirs, is something that has many aftereffects, whether or not these aftereffects are wanted is beside the point. They are something to be controlled and sometimes, even ignored, as a soulbond from the result of mating should not prevent one from functioning in daily life. Watson knows that he and Sherlock are going to have to get these _urges_ under control as to prevent anything detrimental from happening. But that could be worried about later, right now, he has Sherlock in his arms and he isn’t going to let go.

“I - thank you.” Watson extols against Sherlock’s hair.

After a long moment of silence, the lad asks. “Where is your fiancée?”

“She’s late.” Is Watson’s simple answer. Sherlock doesn’t need anymore explanation. “You’re worried about her, in more ways than one.” The lad comments; it isn’t a question.

Watson nods.

And Sherlock, feeling a tiny, insistent wave of torment emanate from Watson, his Alpha, he does the only thing he can think of that will distract the older man - he kisses him.

Watson feels Sherlock’s soft lips press against his and his brain short circuits. The kiss is chaste, but he finds himself pulling the lad closer all the same.  Tongues soon meet and bodies press ever closer and soon much is forgotten, all Watson can hear and think about are the whimpers and moans Sherlock is making below him, the way the slim fingers are clasping his shirt and the glorious feeling of ravishing Sherlock’s innocent mouth.

Neither of them hears the sound of the door opening,  or the person scurrying in to get away from the cold until they hear an audible gasp from behind Sherlock.

Two pairs of pleasure hazy eyes turn to face a stunned Mary. The shock barrages through Sherlock, making him frightened and before Watson can stop himself, before Watson can realize what he is about to do, he lets out a vicious growl at the threat, the interruption - poor, unsuspecting Mary.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And...cliffhanger! I have a love/hate relationship with cliffhangers. *Le sigh* Hope you guys enjoyed it, see you next chapter! ;)


	5. Bare Your Wrists and I'll Bare My Heart (Segue)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I desire the things  
> which will destroy me  
> in the end."  
> \- Sylvia Plath
> 
> “...gravity always wins.”  
> -Radiohead ‘Fake Plastic Trees’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank Rangerdanger and also introduce her to the crazy family of betas I have. Thank you for helping me and letting me bounce ideas off you!  
> Hello guys, I am not dead. Sorry if you're disappointed. :P As promised I would post two chapters, and I am, so expect two tomorrow. (^_^) I just wanted to post this teaser for you all because I feel insanely bad about taking so long with my updates. You all have been so amazing and the day I stop telling you guys that is the day I am actually dead.  
> Hope you all enjoy this and believe me I've been feeling so good about the comments/kudos/hits/subscriptions that I am on cloud nine always. Thank you so much!! <3 <3 <3

****

_“You can't quit until you try_

_You can't live until you die_

_You can't learn to tell the truth_

_Until you learn to lie'_

Sixx:A.M. ‘Life is Beautiful’

 

 

    Watson’s growl echoes throughout the entire room. It needs no help to be heard what with the roaring silence that has everyone stuck in suspended animation.

    The pause seems to go on forever and Watson almost wishes it would, except even he knows that today is just not his day.

    He just growled at Mary and not just one of those _stay away, he’s mine_ snarls, this was a bonafide Alpha _I mean business_ one. One that makes Omegas cower and Betas eager to leave the situation, but Mary - who is braver than even she often fails to realize- hasn’t moved, instead she has dropped her bags and brolly and is staring at them both in a mixture of shock, confusion and definitive hurt.

    It is she who breaks the silence. “What is the meaning of this John?”

   Watson cannot find the words to speak.

   It’s not as if the Beta gives him the chance to anyways. She narrows her eyes, studies Sherlock for a minute before her face deepens in anger at the recognition and realization. And then she says the words so slowly that all hopes of Watson ever finding his voice have left without a trace. “What are you doing with _Sherlock Holmes_?”

****  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you again on the next two chapters!  
> P.S. I never wanted to leave this at a cliffhanger but they are a necessary evil sometimes. :(


	6. Your Wounds, But My Sutures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Take your time, I'm only dying."  
> \- Eyes Set to Kill, 'Darling'
> 
> "Of all the fires, love is the only inexhaustible one."  
> —Pablo Neruda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I decided to post the two chapters in a timely manner instead of straight away as to be honest with you, they needed a lot of revising. But finally this one is ready to be posted. Thanks to my betas.  
> As always I want to thank everyone for the kudos/bookmarks/subscriptions/hits any and everything. You all are so wonderful. Thank you! :)  
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!  
> Title taken from Fall Out Boy's "Immortals" A song I absolutely adore.

 

_“There's a fire in your eyes_

_And I hope you'll let it burn”_

\- The Red Jumpsuit Apparatus _“Seventeen Ain’t So Sweet”_

 

 

* * *

    Mary’s eyes flicker between Watson and Sherlock. The room goes quiet again, or at least Watson assumes so, as the only sound he hears is the violent pounding of his own heartbeat _thump thump thump._

    He speaks before he thinks and the words come effortlessly again. “What do you mean? How do you know Sherlock?”

Mary lets out a derisive, mirthless laugh. “You mean you don’t _know_? The Holmes family has been around for _years_! They’re old money darling, and far richer than you and I could ever dream. I had the good fortune to meet the Lord and Lady themselves quite a few times; they often come to most of the soirees we attend. I’ve met the heir to their estate only once but I never thought much of it.” Then, another mocking chuckle. “And here I come to find you with him. My, isn’t life grand?”

   Watson frowns; he never really listened to her gossip and usually tuned her out when she talked about other people. It’s no wonder the Holmes family flew right over his head.  He looks down at Sherlock as if the boy with the wild hair holds any answers but all the lad is doing is staring at Mary in absolute contempt, the terror from before having faded quite quickly.

   “Funny,” Sherlock spits, taking a step towards Mary, “my parents never mentioned meeting anyone like you. I guess you weren’t of much importance if I can’t remember you either.”

   The Beta’s eyebrows raise at that. “You have some nerve.”

   “And you have no right -”

    Watson moves to stand between them. “Alright, that’s enough out of both of you.” He turns to Mary, “Mary we have matters to discuss and Sherlock,” he says turning to the lad but the woman quickly interrupts - “I won’t discuss anything with you. He’s just a child John, an impudent one, but a child at that!”

   Sherlock opens his mouth to retort but seems to think better of it. Burning shame rises up within Watson but he’s absolutely sure the feeling is all his own.

   “How could you do this to me?” She yells, honestly, it catches Watson off guard as he has never heard the mild-mannered Mary speak so loudly.

   He winces. “I’m sorry, Mary. You cannot believe how true those words are -”

   “I won’t stand for it John! You are my betrothed, the man I am set to marry, where is the dignity in this?”

    Watson cannot find the words to speak. Mary, once again, glances between the two of them. “How?” She questions.

    “I’m not sure you wish to know the details.” Sherlock mumbles as she stares at him with disbelief.

    “We’ve mated.” Watson admits, raising his head to look her in the eye. “I’m sorry, but it is done.”

     And then he feels it - the sharp sting of a slap. His hand rises to touch the quickly reddening bruise and he looks up at her in shock.

    With tears in her eyes, Mary walks over to her fallen things, kneels down to collect them and whispers: “I never want to see you again John. And as for you,” she turns around and points an accusing finger at Sherlock _Holmes_ , Watson’s brain reminds him.  “you’d be better off finding someone who can actually give you the love you deserve. He’ll also hurt you, sooner or later, he will.”

    “Mary, don’t-” The Alpha begs, but she ignores him. “You can keep your ring John, seems as if I’m not meant to be married.” With that she takes it off her finger and throws it at his face.

    “Mark my words, boy. He’ll hurt you.” She reiterates before closing the front door and disappearing into the night. Watson doesn’t go after her. Instead, as he watches her go, he sees the piece of himself that he had held onto for so long, leave with her.

* * *

    For a long time, Watson does not come out of the lodging except to go to his practice. He ignores phone calls, neglects Gladstone (thank goodness for Mrs. Hudson), stops going to the pub, he shuts himself off from the rest of the world.

   Eventually Mrs. Hudson, his friends, everyone stops trying, having grown tired of their efforts failing. Sherlock eventually stops coming by, having told his parents that he mated but omitting the person’s identity, and thus being on punishment until his parents figure out their next move.

    Watson isolates himself and stays trapped in an awful amalgam of self-hatred, guilt and sadness that seems to go on forever.

    Then one day, while he is wallowing in a particularly rough bout of depression, someone knocks impatiently on the door of his study. He ignores it at first, but then the knocking becomes even more insistent and finally annoyed, he answers it to reveal a man with dark amber eyes that burn with the intensity of a thousand suns. They are familiar eyes but the face they belong to is aged, with greying hair.

   "Hello?” Comes Watson’s confused greeting.

    “Oh thank heavens! Doctor, I’m afraid I am in dire need of your help. You see my son here has had an accident. He sprained his ankle and…” The man points behind himself to a woman holding the hand of - Watson can’t hear anything else for his brain finally wakes up after months of disuse and connects the pieces, it’s Sherlock who’s eyes brighten when they lay upon him.

    Sherlock smiles and does a little wave, but the smile immediately morphs into a grimace when he looks down at his injured foot.

    “How did this happen?” Watson asks, more to Sherlock than anyone else, but his father answers: “We caught him trying to sneak out.” He says unimpressed.

    “He gets his cynicism from his father.” The woman with the hazel eyes and beautiful smile remarks.

    Sherlock’s father smirks, “And he gets his rowdy behavior from his mother.”

   "Mother, Father? Can we get back to the matter at hand please?”

     “Ah yes, my boy here has gotten himself into quite a dilemma. Is there anything you can do for him Doctor?” Three pairs of hopeful eyes turn on Watson who quickly regains his composure. “Certainly, let me see him.”

    With the help of his mother, Sherlock comes forward.

    Watson studies him carefully, he’s still the same Sherlock despite the obvious discomfort he’s in, he still remains as beautiful as ever. Watson’s angry that he couldn’t sense that the Omega was hurt, but he supposes that he must have missed a lot of things while he was in his misery.

    Sherlock’s ankle is swollen but it’s nothing some ice and some pain medicine can’t fix. He tells this to his parents who are relieved to hear the news.

    “Ahh we heard you were one of the best!” Sherlock’s father exclaims.

   Blood rises to color Watson’s cheeks. “It’s nothing, just a simple injury, it wouldn’t take a detective to figure it out.”

    Sherlock’s father gives him a bright grin. “See Judith, efficient and humble as well, they certainly don’t call him the Good Doctor for nothing!”

   "So what should I address you as, Sir?” Watson says, changing the subject. “I like to know what all of my client’s names are. It makes the relationship between doctor and patient more personal.”

    Sherlock’s father nods before speaking in his warm voice. “Well Sir, my name is Arthur, but you my good man, may call me Mr. Holmes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make Mary someone we can empathize with although we're rooting for Sherlock and Watson. Don't worry, this isn't the last we'll see her. And maybe I've been listening to too much Melanie Martinez.  
> As always I cherish your feedback. I read and respond to %99 of my comments so never hesitate to write me something. I don't bite. ;) Thank you all so much for reading, see you next chapter.  
> Stay awesome!


	7. Cut Your Heart Out (And Give It to Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watson and Sherlock get some time to reconcile. 
> 
> And we meet a new character!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have reached 250 kudos! I am so happy, thank you all! Thank you for everything you guys have done! I love all the support and love this and 'Holmes in Heat' have gotten. I will never not be grateful. I appreciate it so much! 
> 
> Special thanks to my betas Abel and Ranger for the much needed help. You guys are awesome.
> 
> Was listening to a lot of Florence and the Machine, hope you guys like hurt/comfort and fluff. ;)

 

_“It’s a shot in the dark, aimed right at my throat.”_

_‘Shake it Out’_ \-  Florence and the Machine

 

* * *

      Sherlock’s parents leave to run errands after Watson assures them that he will be alright. They hug and kiss their son, much to Sherlock’s slight embarrassment and then they bravely  go out into the chilly morning.

    Once he sees that they are gone, Watson turns to Sherlock who is staring at the doctor’s equipment skeptically. “You don’t actually use these things?” He asks.

    Watson smirks, grateful for the mood lightening up. “What do you think?” He responds, just to be an arse.

    Sherlock shrugs. “It seems as if you could build your own monster in here.”

   “Well, not quite, I use this as my torture room; it’s a little more fun.”

     This gets the reaction Watson was hoping for, as Sherlock’s smile crests his face and the lad leans in to give him a playful punch on the arm. “That is not amusing.” The boy lies.

    Watson can’t fight it any longer - he puts his arms around Sherlock and holds him tight. “Oh how I’ve missed you.” He admits against Sherlock’s ever present bed head.

    The lad huffs. “Did you? From the way you were ignoring me, one would certainly question that statement.”

    Watson sighs. “I am so very sorry about all of this. It’s just all been out of my control and-”

   “Say no more. I understand that it is not easy, but next time please do not shut me out. It is the worst thing to have your Alpha hurting and to be incapable of helping.”

    He had never thought about it like that, about Sherlock’s feelings. He was so used to keeping things hidden and being in his solitude that he hadn’t even considered someone else, especially his Omega. How selfish he had been.

   “I’m sorry.” He repeats, taking Sherlock’s hand and intertwining it with his.

   “Good.” Sherlock smirks, leaning in to kiss Watson’s shoulder. “Now, can you help me with this foot? I cannot even believe that I, the great Sherlock Holmes, could be caught and then get into an accident.”

   “It must be fated that I end up being your doctor.”

    Sherlock taps his temple. “Fate or calculated coincidence.”

   Watson’s eyebrows raise. “Sherlock did you..?”

   “Fear not, it was an accident, and I don’t believe in fate, mind you. Just coincidences.”

    Watson places the ice to Sherlock’s ankle and he hisses. When he calms down, the doctor goes to fetch the bandages and the medicine. As he’s administering them, Sherlock watches with rapt attention. Then after a few minutes… “So tell me about Mary.”

   "Sherlock-”

    “Please, I nee- want to know.”

   “What do you want to know about her?”

    “What did she mean exactly by her not being meant for marriage?” Sherlock searches Watson’s eyes for any of the lingering depression and he does find some but not enough to dissuade him.

    Watson continues wrapping Sherlock’s leg with the gauze. “She was engaged before me, but he died about three months after.”

   Sherlock goes quiet, but Watson continues. “When I met her, she was still a bit sad about it. I had been a heavy gambler ever since the war and she was desperate for a new mate. I believe that we were two people who should have never gotten engaged. I can’t tell you how long it took for me to admit that.

    I figured I could fix her and that she could fix me, but it never turned out that way. Do me a favor, lad?” Watson sighs, seriously trying to make sure that Sherlock understands. “Promise you will never be the person I am.”

    Sherlock nods his head and smiles. “I should be so lucky.”

* * *

 

_Six Months Later_

 

    Sherlock meets Irene Adler, another Alpha, the first one he officially knows other than Watson, at school.

    She’s of high stature, but she talks like a low class ruffian, he immediately takes a liking to her. They become friends and soon, after an Omega is found dead and apparently tortured, she becomes his informant.

    He’s eighteen now and old enough to be living on his own, but with the rising crime and the rate of adolescents going missing, his parents are, understandably, anxious about sending him anywhere alone.

   Irene, who is the self-proclaimed eyes and ears of the London underground, divulges all the information she hears with him.

“Apparently the people aren’t all going missing by coincidence,” Irene says, taking a drag of her cigarette. She slides a picture over to him. To the average onlooker, they aren’t even having a conversation. “There’s an operation, some kind of sex ring involving Omegas and Alphas, hell even Betas.”

    “Do you know who’s in charge?” He asks, looking around for any wandering eyes. When he looks down at the picture, it’s as gruesome as the last.

   Irene takes another drag of her cigarette. “You’re gonna have to pay extra for that.” She declares, unashamed.

    Sherlock grins. “That’s why I like you, Irene.” He gives her the money and she slides another picture to him. It’s a man with red hair, it’s not a dark auburn like Irene’s but his eyes are almost the same color as hers.

   “This is Professor Moriarty, head of it all.”

   “Are you sure?”

   She raises her eyebrows. “Believe me, if I wasn’t sure, I wouldn’t bloody be here right now talking to you.”

    He nods. “Right.”

    “How’s the doctor? Does he still not know about our _friendship_?” She emphasizes the word because she knows that Sherlock would prefer she say _affiliation_. It would make him feel less guilty.

    “No, and I would prefer we keep it this way.”

    Alphas get jealous and though Watson is nothing if not caring and sweet, Sherlock doesn’t want to test the waters. He doesn’t want Watson knowing about Irene because chances are that even if he were understanding of their affiliation, he wouldn’t quite like Sherlock conversing with someone as (his parents would say if they found out as well) ‘boorish’ as she.

    So he keeps it a secret, just like his relationship with Watson. He also doesn’t want anyone knowing about the work he does in the dark to bring Omegism down. If no one knows, no one gets hurt.

****  
**** ~.~

 

     Mary is in town buying roses for her father when she sees a familiar face standing outside of a shop. Silently, she watches the Alpha speak with the Holmes boy and feels burning anger arise within her. _Another Alpha?_ she thinks, _but this can't be? Does Watson even know about this? Should he?_ She frowns, but then her eyes meet Sherlock's shocked ones and she makes up her mind on the spot.  _He will!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again beauties! I also, sort of, kind of revamped my Tumblr, the link's in my profile. Feel free to submit stuff, ask me questions or both. (^_-) I love ya'll. Thank you for helping me reach this milestone and for this momentous occasion. I really couldn't have done it without you! (T_T)


	8. When an Angel Falls and a Devil Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to stop Mary, but his plan doesn't go so well. 
> 
> "Though in the order of nature angels rank above men, yet, by scale of justice, good men are of greater value than bad angels."  
> \- Saint Augustine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> Despite all the craziness happening in the world right now, I just want to say that I hope you're all safe out there. 
> 
> I love the theme of innocence vs. temptation and thus you'll find many of the quotes I choose have that theme. If you, in any way, find this offensive, please do not read them.  
> I want to thank my beta readers Kate, Abel, and Ranger for the much needed help and advice.  
> If you enjoy this chapter, please leave a kudos or a comment or both. ;) Also, I want to thank all of you amazing readers who have been sticking with me from the beginning and even those who have just started reading. I appreciate everything! Thank you!

When An Angel Falls and A Devil Calls

“Temptation is like a knife, that may either cut the meat or the throat of a man; it may be his food or his poison, his exercise or his destruction.”

\- _John Owen_

__****  
  


“If a man is not rising upwards to be an angel, depend upon it, he is sinking downwards to be a devil.”

\- _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_

* * *

 

 

   Sherlock tells Irene that he has to go. She nods and for once, says nothing. He’s sure she must have seen Mary, and either doesn’t know anything about her or does know but has the good graces to keep her mouth shut, perhaps. Either way, at this moment he has bigger things to worry about.

   He hurries to follow Mary, heading in the direction he last saw her. He goes down one alley and then the next, looking for evidence of her and finding none. It seems as if she has just disappeared.

   He knows that she’s probably heading back to the lodging to tell Watson or maybe, gone to tell his parents. He’s worried, but tries not to focus on it, hoping that maybe he can stop her before she does just that.

    It isn’t long as he’s looking all around when he sees the lilac silk of her skirts and he feels relief course through him, he pushes past people and races to catch up to her. But as soon as he is so close to touching her shoulder, she makes a turn and disappears again.

    Frustrated, he stops running. And takes in a few full breaths. On his third inhale, he senses something; he is not alone. There’s a man who’s been following him since he left Irene and two more  a foot away behind him.

   Panic rises through him but he tampers it down - they probably already smell omega, but scared omega would perhaps give them too much of an invitation to come forth.

   He straightens up and looks around without making it obvious that he’s aware of their presence.

   He looks for an escape route but finds none. Their scents are coming closer, they’re all alphas. And he doubts they’re here because they just want to talk.

   He has no weapon on him, just his bag of school books. In a huff, he drops them and decides to face the consequences, come what may. George, the cook, had thought him some form of martial arts training called Baritsu and he was perpared to use it if need be.

    “Well, come on. I haven’t got all day.” He says, preparing himself for their ambush.

   And ambush they do. It isn’t much of a fight, but Sherlock manages to get one down, but the other two prove to be much more worthy adversaries and get Sherlock into a corner.

   He kicks and punches but they grip him. “I will scream.” He warns them, but the alphas seem not to care.

   “This one will be perfect for the boss, don’t ya think?” Alpha number one tells alpha number two while alpha number three is still on the ground grunting in pain from Sherlock kicking him in the throat.

   “Oy, he’s such a pretty bitch.” Alpha number two agrees.

   Alpha number one nods, then leans in and licks a grimy stripe across Sherlock’s face. “You cause too much trouble. Boss says you need to be silenced.”

   The poor boy closes his eyes, waiting for it - the humiliating rape or the terrible beating that’s going to happen to him.

   And then it’s as if all time stands still. He’s waiting...but it never comes. “What on earth is going on here?”

   The familiar voice startles the alphas. They sneer at him, but they let go, pick alpha number three off the ground and fade into the darkness with their last ominous warning being “This ain’t the last you’ll see of us.”

   Sherlock is rubbing his wrists and his shoulders, both bruised red now by the harsh grip of the brutes. When he looks up, Mary is running towards him. “Are you alright?”

   He blinks, temporarily disoriented by the circumstances. “Uh, yes. I’m just a little shaken.”

   She touches his cheek and he cringes, looking back at the wall he was pressed against and shudders. _He was so close to being hurt and he only narrowly escaped that fate. Thanks to Mary?_

   Her face is turned to the direction of the alphas departure. “Do you know those men, Sherlock?”

   He shakes his head in the negative. “No, but thank you for saving me.”

    She nods. “Of course. Now let’s get you home, your parents must be worried sick.”

    He shakes his head again. “If it means anything, I would just like to return to Watson.” He shudders again and bites his lip. “I don’t really want my parents seeing me like this.” He clarifies and shows her the bruises.

    He can see her reluctance, but to his surprise, she pulls him to her side and leads him out of the alley.

* * *

 

   Watson is furious, but relieved when he sees Sherlock still in one piece. But he’s a little shocked to see that it’s Mary who brings the lad to him.

    “What is the meaning of this?” He inquires, eyes flickering between the two of them. Mary looks slightly smug and proud of herself, while Sherlock looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else except there.

   “Let Sherlock explain.” She says. Watson narrows his eyes at her, he knows that they are both hiding something, but god help him, he can’t quite figure it out.

   He folds his arms and scrutinizes Sherlock who is still adamantly not saying anything.

    “Mary, what is this about? Where was he?”  She is about to answer when Sherlock interrupts. “I was with Irene, another alpha. But it’s not what you think. It’s so much more complicated and-”

   Watson stops him. “Sherlock, did she _hurt_ you?” His heart stops, he doesn’t think he wants to know the answer.

   The lad shakes his head earnestly. “No!”

   “There were some ruffians.” Mary mutters, staring at Sherlock as if he is just going to spill all of the details if she stares at him long enough.

   Watson’s heart nearly falls out of his chest. “W-what? Did you see their faces?”

   Mary shakes her head. “Well, no, they left once I turned the corner. But I heard them! Tell him Sherlock.”

   “It’s true. They were alphas. All three of them.” The lad finally admits.

   Watson sighs. “Alright Mary. I am eternally grateful to you for bringing Sherlock here. But it seems that the lad and I have much to discuss.”

   “That is all? I believe Watson that you should -”

   “Thank you, Mary! Now, if you would be so kind as to leave…” He points to the door.

   Mary scoffs. “I saved his life, and this is what I get?”

  Watson pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mary, not now, please?”

  “Fine.” She seems to deflate a little.

   “Thank you, Mary,” Sherlock smiles at her. “I figure that I owe you that much.”

   “We will never be even.” She mutters, and with that said, she leaves.

* * *

  “Watson?” Sherlock calls, turning around to find that the alpha is not in the foyer. He emerges a second later, coming from the bathing room, drying his hands on a towel, with the sound of the tub filling behind him.

   “Don’t talk, Sherlock, just follow me.” He says.

   Sherlock gulps, not knowing what to expect. He knows that they have to speak about the incident, but he doesn’t want to. Still he obeys.

   Watson’s in his dress pants, suspenders and white silk shirt. The sleeves are rolled up as he works on filling the tub with hot water. “Get undressed.” He orders softly, not looking at Sherlock.

  Sherlock, once again, obeys. Doing everything mechanically, he stops when he’s stark naked.

  Watson fiddles with the tub some more, adjusting the temperature and not looking at Sherlock.

  “Alright, Sherlock step in.”

   Sherlock does as he says. The water is warm, cool enough to be shocking, but hot enough to soothe his sore muscles as he lowers himself into the amazing depths.

   He leans against the edge of the tub, temporarily forgetting all of his troubles.  He barely registers Watson’s careful prodding at the angry, red marks on his shoulders.

   He feels as if he could fall asleep as Watson starts to massage his scalp with gentle fingers. “Sherlock, you had me so worried.” Comes the broken voice behind him.

   “I didn’t mean to.”

   “I know, Sherlock, I know. I have my suspicions, but I’ll wait until you’re ready to tell me. For now, I’m just glad you’re still here.” Watson places a gentle kiss to the claiming mark he placed on Sherlock that fateful night.

   Sherlock lets out a lascivious groan, unintentionally of course, as the pain pleasure tingles through him.

   He moves away from Watson and makes space. “Come join me.” He orders. John stares at him, unblinkingly. And so he adds, “Sir.” And yeah it’s great to see Watson caught off guard by a sexual suggestion, but it’s a hundred times better to see the predatory glint flash off from his eyes as his will power depletes when he hears what he needs.

   Watson pauses to pull off his suspenders and Sherlock licks his lips as the shirt goes next. Watson has a beautiful chest, it’s hard and muscular where Sherlock’s is soft and lanky, with scars from the war of long ago. Watson never seems embarrassed of them, though he has nothing to be embarrassed about - they are as wonderful as the rest of him. It tapers off to a narrow waist, strong thighs and a gorgeous arse. Sherlock doesn’t quite know what his favorite thing about Watson’s body is and with so much for the eyes to feast on it’s hard to pick just one, but as he watches the alpha unbutton his pants and slide them down to reveal his, thick, leaking cock, he may admit that he likes that part most of all.

  He steps into the tub and surges forward, pulling Sherlock towards him and kissing him within an inch of his life. When they pull apart, it’s only to breathe but Sherlock feels that Watson is the only oxygen he’ll ever need, ever want.

   They kiss again until Watson turns him so that Sherlock’s arse is flush with Watson’s hips, but only briefly as Watson bends him over, placing Sherlock’s hands on the lip of the tub and roaming his hands over Sherlock’s plush arse.

   Sherlock sighs, seeing as they’ve only had sex once outside Sherlock’s heats and though that time was quite pleasant, now it seems as if there’s an urgency. And it isn’t a bad thing, certainly not, but he can definitely see where the rush of adrenaline could become addicting. Maybe having his life put in danger is the cause. He doesn’t really want to think, he just wants to connect with Watson again, he wants to be sure that he’s still here, that they’re both still here.

   He feels the slick leak out of his now twitching hole and feels his dick fill, both desperate to be touched.

  He reaches a hand behind him to take Watson’s and lead it back to his arse, he knows his slick is probably drooling onto John’s fingers by now, if the shaky breath Watson lets out is any indication.

   And Watson thankfully doesn’t need to be told, he positions Sherlock right so that he can slide a finger in, and they both groan when there is no resistance. Sherlock’s hole clenches hungrily around the first finger. Two more fingers later and he’s chanting Watson’s name, begging, groaning, desperate for more.

    He hears when Watson slicks up his cock, squeezing one of Sherlock’s hard, pink nipples as a distraction before he presses in gently. And there’s a burn, of course. Watson’s dick is much bigger than his fingers and Sherlock isn’t producing nearly enough slick like when he’s in heat. But it’s still so good, especially as Watson’s whispering encouragements in his ear and kissing his shoulders.

   Once the velvet soft head slips in, there’s still the stretch as the rest of Watson’s length presses in. The burning is fading and in its place is an insistent pulsing ecstasy that’s forcing him to let go of his willpower and just ride Watson like he wants. But he holds tight, until Watson is sheathed up to the hilt and he’s free to push back, fucking himself while Watson watches in a daze.

   It doesn’t take long for them, way before they’re even ready to orgasm, to move their naked, wet selves to the bedroom, where Watson picks up on Sherlock’s desires and lets him ride him.

   It’s slow but perfect. Especially since they’ve found a good rhythm. Whenever Sherlock rocks forward, Watson thrusts up. It’s such a glorious feeling to have Watson going deeper than Sherlock ever thought possible, Sherlock comes shamelessly on Watson’s chest below him. And Watson fucks up more insistently, his handprints branding into Sherlock’s  hips whenever he grips too tight.

  Eventually his knot pops and they stay connected, just exactly what Sherlock was craving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Love you guys so much!
> 
> Please be safe out there. See you next chapter!


	9. Fire, Flesh and Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Then tell me, Maria  
> Why I see her dancing there  
> Why her smold'ring eyes still scorch my soul
> 
> I feel her, I see her  
> The sun caught in raven hair  
> Is blazing in me out of all control"
> 
> -The Hunchback of Notre Dame "Hellfire"
> 
> Sherlock and Watson enjoy some time alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! This chapter is pure smut. Maybe it has a little plot? If you blink?  
> I want to thank Kate and RD who are new to the armada, but are great beta readers all the same. And most importantly I want to thank you all for the kudos/subscriptions/bookmarks/hits/comments everything! You guys absolutely rock!
> 
> I also updated the tags and will continue to update them as needed.
> 
> And also 294 kudos?! We've come so far guys! <3 <3
> 
> Enjoy!

Fire, Flesh and Bone

 

_****_

_“Lyin' in my bed with her hands tied up_

_I knew it all along that it wasn't enough_

_'Cuz when I gotta taste of you_

_I found somethin' I can sink my teeth into_

_It's an ache that never heals_

_It's the deepest cut you feel_

_It's the thing in you that feeds_

_The animal in me_

_It's the darker side of lust_

_It's the other side of us_

_It's the thing in you that feeds_

_The animal in me, the animal in me”_

_-_

Motley Crue _“The Animal in Me”_

* * *

 

_The following morning…_

Watson steps into the corridor leading to his room after coming off the phone with Inspector Lestrade - the phone call wasn’t a pleasant one, not in the least. Lestrade was stressed and it was all about the terror happening on London’s streets. Apparently no one is safe anymore from the violence. It used to only be omegas in danger of being taken and forced into sex rings, and that was horrible enough but now every level on the chain is a target. It is warped and twisted, and Watson hates thinking about it.

Still, he’s grateful that he could receive some information, no matter how disconcerting. He likes being a part of the action, he likes to think that he can help in some way. Maybe he’s deluding himself, maybe the only reason Lestrade trusts him is because he’s taken a liking to Watson as a friend, whatever the reason may be, at least he gets to be more a part of it than he’d be if he were simply reading the paper.

He’s halfway to his room, the familiar aroma of Sherlock’s sweet butterscotch scent caressing his nose and making him feel more relaxed as he gets closer, when he sees a sight that makes him stop in his tracks; Sherlock is sitting up in Watson’s bed, upper body stark naked while he’s wrapped in the covers from the waist down. He’s rubbing one of his eyes and not really looking at anything, still lost in that sleepy, post-coital haze. His rebellious ebony locks are even more rumpled now thanks to Watson’s gentle tugging last night. His nipples - rosy pink buds that stand at attention on a small chest that rises and falls with Sherlock’s breathing. He’s completely smooth, hairless. He looks like he’s a fucking fifteen year old wet dream (even though he's eighteen now) and Watson has to bite his fist just to anchor himself.

Eventually he does cross the distance into the room. He knows he must look like he’s in great pain, because Sherlock tilts his head and screws his face into a pout when he sees him. Watson’s trying to tame the alpha and be civil and maybe even romantic but damn it, it’s not easy.

“Are you alright, Watson?” The lad asks, concern dripping with every word.

Watson nods in the affirmative. He’s looking everywhere but Sherlock’s eyes, drinking in the sight of him. The rising sun is bathing everything in a brilliant glow, making Sherlock look ethereal now. As if he’s some incubus from some secret part of hell that must have Watson’ name printed in the blood of wayward saints, waiting for him.

Sherlock is not pleased with that answer. “You don’t seem alright.”

He gets off the bed, carrying the covers with him, still hugging his slight waist. Once he’s in front of Watson, he tips up on his toes and presses the back of a hand against Watson’s forehead. “You’re warm.” The lad says matter- of-factly. The tip of Sherlock’s tongue peeks out from his lips to wet them before he frowns in concentration, placing his hands on Watson’s throat now to feel more of the heat.

“Are you in rut?” He asks, and Watson would have hugged him and kissed him for being his own little doctor, if the very mention of rut didn’t have Watson’s twitching dick leak precome. But he does gain the common sense to shake his head again.

Then Sherlock grins wickedly, perhaps figuring it out...he leans in close to Watson, close enough that his breath tickles Watson’s ear. “I want to try something.”

Sherlock doesn’t explicitly need permission, they both know this, but that’s why he says it, to kill Watson with the anticipation alone. Watson gives him a nod, all the same.

And then Sherlock is on his knees in one fluid motion.

Watson’s eyes can’t help but stare at the lad kneeling between his legs, and mercy is it a fucking  _sight_. Sherlock’s looking up at him from beneath his lashes, wide brown eyes getting impossibly darker as he takes in the heady smell of Watson’s alpha scent with every breath.

But Sherlock’s own dulce one is intertwining with his dangerously, along with the post-coital aroma lingering in the room from last night. He can practically almost taste it, the salty sweet caramel-like consistency that’s keeping him on edge. He can’t quite get himself off but neither can he stay this hard forever. It’s fucking intoxicating, and cruel. And Sherlock can probably sense this too, but he’s quiet, as if he can do this all day with no complaint, just ghosting his breath over Watson’s dick, driving him mad, until either of them does something about it.

But Watson doesn’t want to discourage Sherlock from getting ideas or trying to explore new things. He doesn’t want to stop the lad from his actions by fucking the living hell out of him every time he does something irresistible. So the only thing he does is try to even out his breathing and it works, he wills his arousal into a more comfortable state and is about to encouragingly rub his fingers through Sherlock’s hair to reassure him that he can take his time, when in a voice that’s a little deep but still as innocent as ever, the lad says with absolutely no shame, “I want you to pull my hair and force me to call you _Sir_.”

Watson’s eyes widen and he looks down at Sherlock who simply licks his lips and stares at him doe-like. He manages to nod, but then Sherlock admits, not even with a hint of shyness, “That’s not all...I want you to do it while you fuck my mouth.” And yep, Watson’s fucking gone. Where on Earth did Sherlock even learn to talk like that? Not that he’s complaining. It’s just a little dizzying how fast Sherlock can go from sweet and virginal to evil and seductive in seconds. It doesn’t make sense, but then again nothing makes sense right now, especially not when Watson’s hand unconsciously finds Sherlock’s hair and gives an almost bruising tug. He watches the crimson creep to the lad’s cheeks and his wet, red lips form a small ‘O’ as he realizes that he is getting what he wants.

Sherlock’s breath fans over Watson’s clothed erection, and even through his trousers and undergarments, he can feel the heat ghost across his groin like a caress. And now he’s so hard it hurts.

Sherlock must have read his mind because he’s suddenly loosening the top button of Watson’s pants, giving the alpha some relief from the strain on his erection...Sherlock’s eyes are on his now, but he’s slowly losing his doe-like composure - eyes darkening to a lust filled black and breath coming out in desperate pants. Finally, despite Sherlock seeming to take a _decade_ , Watson’s dick is free of its confines, and the air of the room is like a fucking jolt of electricity once it hits his cock.

The feeling is short-lived because almost as soon as his dick earns its freedom and Sherlock is basking in the sight of it, he gets a flash of an impish grin before a soft but firm hand wraps around him and is tugging gently.  Sherlock gives him one last evil look before he guides the pulsing head to his mouth, giving it a teasing kiss and wiping precome onto his now glistening lips. Watson shudders, trying his best to stay still, if he moves and does what he wants, this will be over way too quickly. Sherlock seems to sense what Watson is doing and as a reward, Watson’s cock is met with the burning warmth of a slick tongue licking a stripe from the base to the tip. And the sound Watson makes is absolutely guttural.

Sherlock continues like that, tracing patterns on Watson’s dick with his tongue while his warm, wet lips place tender kisses at the base, right where John’s knot waits to rise. Watson’s knees feel weak as the pleasure dances up and down his spine, and he’s tempted to just fuck Sherlock’s face like he asked, but he really doesn’t want to interrupt the show Sherlock’s making of worshipping his dick.

Then fingers clutch at the base before those heated lips are wrapped around the head, deft tongue swiping to lick at the precome dripping from the slit and a moan escapes from both of them. Watson can’t tear his eyes off of the scene, especially once he’s witnessed the tip of his dick actually pass Sherlock’s neat, soft lips. He’s certain that they won’t be able to stretch and take in his girth, but Sherlock surprises him by swallowing his entire length up to the hilt. Damn omegas and their lack of gag reflexes. Sherlock hums appreciatively around his dick and it’s simply delicious.

Watson takes a moment to admire the view, Sherlock’s pretty lips are stretched obscenely wide around his member, his eyes are dark and tearing a little at the corners, one hand is on Watson’s waist while the other is beneath the covers as he discreetly jerks himself off. He was meant to take dick, and Watson thinks that it’s a shame for Sherlock to go a minute without having any of his holes properly used, the way nature intended.

He’d just have to fix that.

“Stop touching yourself,” He commands and the lad halts immediately.  Watson’s hand flies to Sherlock’s hair and he tugs Sherlock’s mouth off his cock. There’s lines of saliva connecting them still, but they are both too gone to care.

Watson feels emboldened by the sex high and decides to take it up a notch. “Sherlock, I need to fuck your mouth, g-god. And I n-need to see you come on my knot.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise but they are all pupil. He laves an expert tongue across his abused lips while his eyes refocus on Watson’s cock. Watson watches his Adam’s apple bounce when he swallows before he replies, “Y-yes Sir.”

And that’s all it takes, he surges back to Watson’s dick, head bobbing up and down as he sucks and licks with renewed vigor. Still Watson does as he said he would and holds Sherlock’s face still while he pistons his hips into Sherlock’s trapped mouth.

A litany of curses string from his lips as he watches Sherlock just take it. He knows Sherlock is wet, hell, people from the streets below probably know, the smell is certainly there, but Watson wants to _see_. So he taps the lad’s shoulder and gestures for him to move the covers from around his waist. And Sherlock, ever the obedient one, does as he’s told. Practically throwing the sheets to the side to reveal his lower half. And it is a sight, his flushed dick is bobbing between his knees, aching to be touched while his hole is basically twitching, oozing so much slick it’s practically wetting the backs of his thighs. Watson feels his knot begin to swell just at the sight but he can’t have that.

He tugs Sherlock’s hair again, and the boy  groans in pleasure at the man handling. The lad pulls his mouth off Watson’s cock with a sinfully wet _pop_ and he looks up smugly before Watson basically pounces on him, pawing at anywhere his hands can reach. Sherlock returns his enthusiasm, practically tearing off the rest of Watson’s clothes and moaning when skin meets skin.

They rub off on one another for a brief moment before Watson’s dick reminds him that he wants more, he takes one look at Sherlock, because he’s not sure for a brief second, but Sherlock’s eyes are shining with victory and arousal, he’s enjoying this a little too much, and he’s looking at Watson expectantly.

So Watson flips him onto his stomach, right there on the floor. He raises Sherlock’s arse up and leans his head down so that his face is practically pressed into the pillow (that he provided once he got a little clarity, lest Sherlock hurt his neck). He’s taking the dress shirt he was wearing from last night and tying an intricate knot around Sherlock’s hands, pinning them to his back when he notices that Sherlock is squirming very impatiently.

“Are you alright?” He asks, pausing from his actions to check Sherlock over. The lad is squirming and breathing hard, but boy does he look like a pretty piece. All bound like that, he looks like Watson’s very own gift. Watson can’t help but stop to tap an idle finger at Sherlock’s hole, basking in how it flutters at the mere hint of an intrusion.

“Sir, I’m fine.” But he sounds so utterly broken and _wrecked_ , and Watson _loves_ it. It’s so relieving for him to admit it, but he does. He loves seeing Sherlock like this.

“Shh, I’ll make it better. I _promise_.” Watson whispers by the lad’s ear, slicking his dick up with Sherlock’s fluid. He would stretch him, but at this point they’re not kidding anyone - Sherlock doesn’t need it and his hole is twitching hungrily. Plus, Watson’s been waiting far too long for this.

He kisses a line down Sherlock’s spine, even pressing his lips to the lad’s bound wrists before placing a chaste kiss to each arse cheek. Then it’s his turn to get on his knees, he rubs the velvet soft head of his cock against the plush globes of Sherlock's arse, leaving glistening beads of precome in its trail, before aligning with Sherlock's hole. He slowly thrusts into the amazing heat that is Sherlock’s passage. He steadies himself until he’s up the hilt, gripping Sherlock’s hands he presses them down so that the satin of the shirt bites into the lad’s wrists. Knowing they’ll leave marks.

He sucks a bruising hickey into the hollow at Sherlock’s back and then finally, _finally_ , moves. Sherlock is shamelessly loud, crying out and begging him for more, using that not-so-innocent mouth to coax Watson’s alpha.

And Watson feels wild, animalistic, taking Sherlock good and proper. He can’t really stop himself, just keeps fucking into Sherlock long and deep, each brutal thrust causing the younger man to gasp and beg even more.

Somehow, one of his hands slides its way into Sherlock’s hair and he pulls, tilting Sherlock’s head up to expose the claiming mark and leaning up to trail his tongue along it.

Sherlock comes then, his channel clenching around Watson’s knot as the aftershocks pulse through his body. Watson can’t help but whisper encouraging words to him, praising him for being so good. And Sherlock practically purrs beneath him.

Later, when they are clean and lying in bed, aiming to sleep off the haze, Sherlock turns to Watson who’s got his arm around him and is staring up at the ceiling waiting for sleep. He presses his nose into the older man’s throat, enjoying their mingled scent lingering on his skin, before asking, “Can you fuck me like that more often, Sir?”

And Watson groans. He knows on his tombstone, the words **Death By Sherlock** will be imprinted. He doesn’t think he’d have it any other way.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing a detailed blowjob, and it didn't make me cringe. XD
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed it! More to come soon! ;)


	10. The Song of a Weeping Violin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For he being dead, with him is beauty slain,  
> And, beauty dead, black chaos comes again."  
> Venus and Adonis (1593), line 1,019.
> 
> Sherlock learns a harsh lesson about mortality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! How's it going? 
> 
> I want to thank my beta readers for the help! And I want to thank you guys for the kudos/subscriptions/hits/comments/everything. You guys make me feel so grateful everyday. 
> 
> I don't know if I'll be updating again until around/after Christmas. I'll be around though. So happy holidays everyone! You all deserve to have a good one. 
> 
> This may sound cheesy, but I appreciate it so much! You guys build me as a writer and though I love what I'm doing, you guys keep me grounded and I can't thank you all enough for that.
> 
> Fair warning: this chapter gets a little sad, but it's not for shock/wow value, some things are hard to write about, but necessary. If this isn't your cup of tea, then please feel free to skip this chapter. I understand. I will update the tags if it gets too trigger-y. But if you want to stay, then stick around, by all means. Get comfy. :D

“Murderers are not monsters, they're men. And that's the most frightening thing about them.”

― Alice Sebold, _The Lovely Bones_

* * *

_A few days later_

Sherlock is sitting at the table, eating breakfast with his father while his mother talks to Gertrude somewhere in the house. He’s only mildly listening, but he can tell that there’s something different in the way that his father talks to him now that he knows Sherlock’s mated (even though he doesn’t know the person’s identity), there’s more respect there, less condescension. Although, he assumes his father never meant to sound patronizing before, it’s still a lovely change.

They’ve all grown closer, talked more, fought less, Sherlock is pleased with the turn of events.

Occasionally, he nods or hums, just to satisfy his father when asked a question and it seems to be working, his father is none the wiser.

In all honesty, Sherlock’s mind is somewhere else, like it usually is. He’s thinking about his older brother’s visit.

It’s been ten years since Mycroft left London to go to Lourdes, France. Ten years and Sherlock still misses him terribly.

Although Mycroft would refuse to refer to his leaving as being sent away, it was akin to that. As an alpha, Mycroft was experiencing major changes since presenting and was getting fed up with their parents’ lack of understanding. He was becoming more aggressive, more on edge. Their parents couldn’t contain him during his ruts and eventually they decided to have him leave. Mycroft never thought of it like that, he always argued that it was he who wanted to leave, or that it was a mutual agreement.

Sherlock assumes that they sent him to Lourdes for a cure. A means to change who Mycroft was on the inside to match the sophisticated, intelligent man on the outside. Or perhaps it was the other way around? He’s not sure, but one thing he is positive about, is that Mycroft resented them greatly for that.

Despite all the calamity, Mycroft visited faithfully every year. He’d come to see Sherlock, bearing gifts and hilarious, fascinating stories about his pilgrimage and life in France.

And Sherlock never failed to listen raptly to every word he said. And Mycroft would do the same, even when Sherlock thought his experiences weren’t nearly as exciting as Mycroft’s, his older brother would still urge him to speak, ensuring him that he would be heard. Despite the age difference, they got along swimmingly.

Mycroft is due for his visit in a couple of days and Sherlock’s getting restless. It doesn’t help that the only person he has to talk to about it is Gertrude, seeing as his parents never really mention Mycroft or allow Sherlock to talk about him much (it’s a touchy subject for both of them as Mycroft hasn’t yet forgiven them for what happened).  

His parents barely mention Mycroft when talking to other people either, Sherlock knows they’re ashamed of the circumstances. That they are aware that it looks a certain way that they had to send away the alpha child while the omega stayed. Hell, that they even had to send away their son in the first place, good parents know how to raise their children after all.

Mycroft is the secret they all keep, that even _Sherlock_ has been guilty of keeping himself. In fact, the only person who he’s ever told about Mycroft is Watson. And it’s a shame because with all the love Sherlock has for Mycroft, keeping him a secret is a great injustice.

One day, he hopes to visit his brother, hopes that the distance that separates them will no longer be a problem. He feels bad from time to time, because Mycroft never asked for any of this, to be the one that didn’t fit in with the perfect picture their parents tried to paint. To be sent away or forced to leave for fear that he would ruin the Holmes’ reputation. It was wrong, but sooner or later, things have a way of coming back to haunt…

* * *

Days turn into weeks and they hear no word from Mycroft. Sherlock becomes suspicious and worried, he begins to assume that Mycroft has cut them off, he fears that Mycroft wants nothing to do with any of them. He’d understand, if his fears were true, but the selfish part in him hopes that that is not the case and that Mycroft has just been busy and lost track of time.

Gertrude tries to comfort him, tells him that Mycroft will be at the door any minute or any day, with his bags and that huge smile on his face he always wears.

It works for awhile, but deep down, somewhere, Sherlock _worries even more_.

One very late night, when Sherlock is in his room reading _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_ , someone knocks on the front door.

He doesn’t wait for one of the maids or manservants to get it, he just runs downstairs and throws the door open. But what greets him isn’t his brother’s smiling face; there are two constables.

“Greetings lad, are the Mr and Missus here?” The one with the perpetual frown asks.

Sherlock turns to call his father but as soon as he turns his back to the constables, his mother is there. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?” She quips.

The men take their helmets off, and their faces turn grave. And soon Sherlock finds that he cannot move, he wants to walk away, but dammit he is paralyzed.

“Something’s happened.”

“We are going to need you to come with us.”

Sherlock’s mother’s face morphs into an expression of confusion. She doesn’t move an inch. “What’s happened? Whatever is the matter?”

The red-headed constable looks away, tries to look at anything else besides Sherlock's mother’s face. While the one with the pout stares right through them, his expression is distant. They have more to say, Sherlock can tell, and it isn’t going to be good news.

After what feels like an eternity, the red-headed one holds up a timepiece. “Does this look familiar to you?”

Both Sherlock and his mother say nothing. They don’t want to know, don’t want to think.  It isn’t until the constable flips open the watch and they are forced to read the inscription in perfect cursive, in a moment that will haunt Sherlock forever, in tauntingly infallible gold calligraphy, _Mycroft Holmes_.

And it's as if someone shot him in the gut. Sherlock’s mother doesn’t stop screaming. The pain does not subside.

* * *

It’s a dark, rainy night. The kind horrors start out with. The weather’s absolutely miserable and Watson has already planned to spend the evening with a good book until he dozes off in peaceful slumber.

But apparently, someone has other plans, Watson realizes when the doorbell rings.

He doesn’t expect to find Sherlock on the other side, at all. Especially not at this time.

The lad is standing out in the rain, his back is turned and he is absolutely _drenched_. “Sherlock?” Watson calls. He takes a coat off the rack and puts it over his head before walking down the steps and touching the lad’s shoulder.

Sherlock turns around, but he’s gone, his dark eyes, that always shine with such vitality are now void of everything that makes him, _him_.

Watson immediately knows that something is very wrong.

“Sherlock what happened? You can talk to me.”

The lad’s head is lowered, he’s staring down at the cobblestone sidewalk and seems unbothered by the freezing rain dripping down his bangs.

“They took him, tortured and mutilated him until he was almost unrecognizable.” Sherlock whispers so low that Watson would probably not have caught it, if he weren’t paying attention. The rain begins to pick up again, so the doctor puts his makeshift brolly over Sherlock and tries to get him to come inside.

But Sherlock does not budge. He just keeps repeating, “they took him.” Over and over again.

“Who Sherlock? Who took whom? What are you talking about?”

“I shall never see him again. Except in my nightmares and even then it is not an image I wish to keep of him.” He says before returning to his litany of “they took him, they took him.”

Watson tries one more time to get Sherlock to come inside and it works, the lad comes willingly as Watson leads him to the sitting room. Once inside, Mrs. Hudson is standing there in her robe, and Watson signals for her to put the tea kettle on.

He gets some warm towels and wraps them around Sherlock, who is still unresponsive.

After Mrs. Hudson returns with the tea and the fire has been properly stoked by Watson, the older man kneels in front of the chair Sherlock is sitting on. He takes Sherlock’s freezing hand in his, “What has gotten you so distressed, my love?”

It takes a little while, Watson rubbing soothing circles to the back of Sherlock’s hand and whispering encouraging words to him, until Sherlock says in a breathlessly shaky voice. “They took Mycroft.”

Watson’s mouth drops open, he can’t find the words to say.

While John is trying to piece this all together in his head, Sherlock stands. “I’m going to find Moriarty and make him _pay_.”

Luckily, Watson regains some sense and stops Sherlock before he can go any further. Sherlock pushes and pulls, but Watson’s grip is like iron.

“Sherlock you’ll get yourself killed!”

“I don’t care! That bastard took my brother. He will pay for this!”

“Sherlock no, please it’s too dangerous.”

The lad fights some more before he suddenly goes stiff in Watson’s arms. He screams into Watson’s shoulder before he is assaulted by wracking sobs. The doctor’s arms wrap even tighter around him and he lets Sherlock weep.

That night, Sherlock cries himself to sleep, but Watson is there, holding him the entire time. He understands that what has happened is serious and so truly awful. It hurts him to see his omega so, so sad. But he can’t just let Sherlock go after one of London’s most violent men. He’d die before he’d let that happen.

However, the next day he wakes up alone. Not remembering when he fell asleep, he mentally reprimands himself. Because lying there in Sherlock’s place, is a note that simply reads: _I’m sorry._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed! 
> 
> How are you all liking the story so far? Feel free to leave me a message in the comments. If you'd like, of course. I am so delighted by the support this fic has received. 
> 
> I mean it when I say that you guys deserve to enjoy your holidays. 
> 
> Also, next chapter I'm posting a surprise. Hopefully by then I'll figure out how and where to post it. (T-T)


	11. Leave Out All the Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Sherlock feels pensive, Watson goes in search of him and finds something...different along the way. 
> 
> "I will never know myself until I do this on my own."  
> \- Linkin Park's Somewhere I Belong.
> 
> Or, the long overdue 11th chapter of HSaHB that the author wrote while listening to copious amounts of Linkin Park.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I am so sorry that this chapter took so long for me to post. I've been battling with allergies, headaches and life in general but here I am, back from the dead or at the very least, the underworld lol. I want to thank my beta Ranger for the much needed help.  
> And as for you guys, I want to say that I feel so incredibly lucky for the amount of love and support these fics have received. I am so grateful and happy that I can make and share something we all can enjoy. Please forgive my sappiness, but at times when I feel unsure of myself I look at the support these fics have received and feel loads better! So thank you, you dearly loved people.
> 
> Okay, onto the story: enjoy. ;)

__

“ _ I'm strong on the surface _

_ Not all the way through _

_ I've never been perfect _

_ But neither have you” _

_ \-   _ Linkin Park,  _ Leave Out All the Rest _

_ “Sometimes solutions aren't so simple _

_ Sometimes goodbye's the only way, oh” _

_ Linkin Park,  _ Shadow Of the Day _ _

 

* * *

    Sherlock uses some of the details and intel that Irene collected as a means to track Moriarty. There isn’t much, but he thinks that maybe he can make do.  For once in his life, he’s not even remotely sure if his plan (if it can be called a plan) will work, he’s losing faith in himself. He’s scared, uncertain and most of all, he’s lost, totally and utterly lost. The feeling is like being stranded in the desert, with no one around, or more accurately, having the one person who  _ was _ around having suddenly died and then subsequently being alone and left to fend for oneself. And yet, it is a million times worse than that because, unlike being in a desert where one has at least some inkling of self-preservation left, he feels as if not returning from this endeavor wouldn’t be so bad.

    He never entertained the thought of death, but that didn’t mean that he was afraid of it. Far from it, actually. While most of his schoolmates were finally getting hit with the weight of existence and the crushing realization that it all had to end someday, he had already accepted that bit of fate. He knew that his time to go would just be his time to go. But the troubling part, the part that he couldn’t accept was losing a loved one. That didn’t sit well with him.

    Mycroft was no exception.

    And he would avenge Mycroft. He had to. As pretentious as it might sound, he’d avenge Mycroft if it was the last thing he did. 

    He’d miss Watson, he’d miss his parents, hell, he’d even miss Irene. But it wasn’t about him, not this time. If Moriarty wanted him to get the message, he got it, loud and clear. He was going to end it, even if it ended with him…

* * *

    Watson gets dressed hurriedly. He breezes past Mrs. Hudson in the hallway and forgoes everything he had planned for the day in order to find Sherlock. 

    He wouldn’t know where to start looking if it weren’t for the scent lingering in the air, the familiar scent of Sherlock but mixed with something more anxious, more citrus-y. 

   He follows it as it takes him through London’s streets, weaving past people and buildings, following the scent that will lead him to Sherlock. 

    It doesn’t take long before a competing scent rivals the primary one. Which is strange, as ever since he mated with Sherlock, all other scents he came into contact with, were all significantly muted. But this scent also has a tinge of his mate with it, it’s a lot calmer, that’s for sure, but it’s fading fast. He decides to follow that one, and prepares himself in the case that it could be a trap.

    And lo and behold, it leads him to an alpha. He utilizes a tip that he learned from watching numerous boxing matches and braces to attack the young female alpha standing out in the streets. But she puts her hands up in surrender - a strange act for an alpha to do, but one that is universally accepted as meaning that she poses no harm. 

    “Who are you and why do you smell like my mate?” Watson questions the startled girl.

   She pauses, appraising him, scenting the air as she does this. “Wait, are you Watson, J-John Watson?”

   Watson frowns, feeling annoyed yet curious - this seemingly unassuming girl has more knowledge than she lets on. “Where is Sherlock?”

   “I swear, I don’t know.” She says.

   He steps closer to her, until he’s peering down at her menacingly. “You  _ know _ something.”

    Someone stops perusing the goods from one of the street merchants to stand next to the alpha. Watson doesn’t have to look up to know who it is, though the surprise still happens to strike him. Mary is studying him with disapproving eyes.  “John, have you taken to harassing the youth now? I must say, it’s rather uncouth. Or, considering your latest paramour I must say, it’s fitting but it doesn’t help your reputation much.”

    Watson narrows his eyes at her. But by the way she’s protectively inching closer to Irene and with the blended familiar scent of her  and the other, foreign scent, Watson puts the puzzle pieces together. “I hope you’ve found happiness.” He tells this to Mary mostly, but also Irene. Tipping his hat to them, and after realizing that this lead has gone cold, he leaves to track the primary scent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You go Watson! Go get Sherlock! Also, I know I made Irene totally very un-alpha in this chapter, but I swear she's very much the dominant one in her relationship with Mary, while Mary is the wise one. They make a good pair, or I like to think so. :) Anywho, thanks for reading and I'll see you in the next chapter. Love you guys loads!


	12. And For All the Angels Cast Out of Heaven, In Their Places Rise Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.”  
> ― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
> 
> Watson is desperate to find Sherlock and bring the omega home safely. Come hell or high water...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! You all have been so patient with me, thank you so much! I'm back and I'm here to stay. 
> 
> Once again, I am sorry for the long wait. I actually forgot how much I love this fic and the fandom, because I strayed a bit. But it feels so good to be back!
> 
> I've been listening to 'Genie in a Bottle' by Christina Aguilera and 'I'm A Slave 4 U' by Britney Spears and they gave me...ideas. Not completely harmless ones either. XD
> 
> I want to thank my incredible beta Deinvati for the motivation, encouragement and assistance with this chapter, thank you immensely for all that you've done!
> 
> And most importantly, I want to thank you all for reading and just giving support to this fic. Twink!Omega! Sherlock is one of my weaknesses. :)
> 
> Thank you again, please enjoy!

_ “Man cannot live on bread alone” _

\- Matthew 4:4

 

_ “From what I’ve tasted of desire  _ _  
_ _ I hold with those who favor fire.” _

\- ‘Fire and Ice’  Robert Frost

* * *

It’s dark and...cold, ridiculously cold. Even through his shirt and Farnsworth vest, the chill seems to have seeped through the material and made its way through his skin and settled deep within his bones. An involuntary, violent shiver besets his body and he grits his teeth to keep them from rattling. 

 

He can’t remember the last time he’s eaten but if the pangs emanating from his stomach are anything to go by, then he hasn’t eaten in  _ days _ . It’s unlikely that they will feed him, and he isn’t desperate enough to eat anything that they would give him anyways. 

 

He’s in a quiet room tied to a pole by some type of durable rope, that’s as much as he knows. And he has stopped calling for help because all of his efforts have been in vain; no one is going to help him, no one  _ can  _ help him. He’d rather not waste any more energy.

 

It was stupid, he surmises, to have come here by himself. How was he, a mere youth, going to take down so many criminals all by himself? Then again, this was all to avenge Mycroft. Had Sherlock been the one slaughtered unjustly, Mycroft would not have hesitated in seeking out revenge on the perpetrators. No matter if it was him against an army.

 

And yet, he failed. He’s going to die here, cold and alone and Moriarty is going to get away with all of it. How stupid he had been!

 

Maybe his death would come quickly. Maybe, he’d meet Mycroft again, in another life somehow, and maybe Sherlock would be a better brother, a better son, a better person. Maybe he could do it right...if he had another chance.

 

Blinding light floods the room and his vision, causing him to blink a few times for his eyes to adjust. It hits him, this overpowering, inescapable scent of raw, pure alpha and Sherlock shivers again. 

 

He glances up quickly to see a red haired older alpha, the same man he saw before he was taken to this room. Moriarty’s his name, Sherlock remembers, the man responsible for Mycroft’s death. He is flanked by two huge betas. 

 

Sherlock grits his teeth to keep from cursing. He won’t give this smug alpha the satisfaction of seeing him distressed and angered. Sherlock would die first.

 

“Gentlemen, it appears we’ve captured quite the specimen. It’s not every day we encounter such beautiful omegas. And it’s not every day that they come straight to us.” His voice is smooth, velvety soft and he never takes his focus off of Sherlock.

 

Sherlock grimaces. “You will never get away with this!”

 

Moriarty’s smirk grows bigger. “Oh dear boy, I already am.” Then, with a scoff, “You’re the omega causing so much trouble? Hmm, I figured you would be older and more...intimidating.” He reaches a hand to touch Sherlock’s hair but the omega turns away.

 

“You’re going to be so good, I can tell.” He laughs cruelly, before he suddenly stops, scenting the air, eyebrow raising, he looks Sherlock over once more. “And you’re pregnant too. This is really a gift. Gentlemen, we have a gorgeous, delicious smelling omega who also happens to be fertile. What a stroke of luck.”

Pregnant? Did he just say…? Sherlock tries to process this. He doesn’t believe it for even one second, he’s having serious trouble wrapping his mind around it. Until suddenly everything starts to fall into place. There was a reason why he felt so...strange. Originally, he thought it was because of the grief, but now it was starting to make sense. The fact that he stopped craving food, the dizziness he had when standing up, the fact that he could smell everything so clearly as if he were still in heat and most importantly, his hormones and his mood changes. He’s pregnant, and with Watson’s child.

 

It’s all going to be so different. He’s going to have a child. He’s going to bring life into this world. Coming all the way here, getting captured and putting his life (and the child’s) in danger was the height of stupidity. If Sherlock had known all along he would have been more careful. What a mistake he’d made, and now their unborn child was never going to get a chance at life because he had been so stubborn. He needs to get back!  _ He has to _ . He cannot die here, he refuses to let that happen. He wants to go back to his alpha, to share the news with Watson. If only he knew how to get out of here… 

 

Tears well up in his eyes. What wretched luck…

 

Moriarty frowns. “Oh don’t worry lad, we’ll take care of you and the babe just fine. This will be your new home.”

 

“Leave me be!” Sherlock snaps. He’s not going to let the twisted alpha win. He’d never let them hurt or even touch his child. And for Moriarty to think that Sherlock was going to just allow them to use him or his child like some sort of vessel to act out their desires, the alpha had truly lost his mind. He’d kill them for even thinking it.

 

He feels rough fingers card through his hair and pull agonizingly. “You see, you don’t have much of a choice.” Moriarty spits as if he can read Sherlock’s mind. “Now, gentlemen, get him ready. We have many eager men willing to put a hefty price on this one. Let’s not keep them waiting anymore.” 

* * *

The scent is potent, rich and hearty. And it’s getting clearer. Now, Watson does not need to concentrate on it so hard anymore. He can practically follow it with his eyes closed. 

 

Sherlock’s fear and anger is obvious and the persistent buzzing within Watson means that he is getting closer to finding his mate. And yet there is a bitter lingering aura interlacing, it appears to Watson, to be regret. He has to find Sherlock before it is too late. He’s not sure how much time he has left and that is making his panic worse, but he will find his mate. Even if it kills him. 

 

Watson’s search leads him to Whitechapel, a slum in the East of England. It has the notoriety for being extremely crime-infested so it comes as no surprise that there would be an entire sex ring here that would go unnoticed or unreported. The most loathsome, abominable brutes have flocked here like the very worst miscreants of Hell, whose own doors refused to open to them. 

 

He decides that his identity needs to be kept secret, that in order for him to get inside, he needs to be someone with a reason to get inside. A reason that, hopefully won’t get him killed. So he poses undercover as a rich, courtly alpha with a penchant for men and women of the night. An alpha whose recent bout with a tied down, helpless beta has earned him a bad rep in the underworld. And so he’s been forced to resort to...other measures of getting himself satisfaction. It is a decent enough cover. He plans to utilize it to access a branch of the sex ring and free as many of their captives as possible. 

 

He is greeted by a greasy looking beta with a smile as grimy as his skin when he walks into the secret building. The beta doesn’t ask him much, he just greets him and sends him through a room akin to a harem. It exudes the smell of sex and debauchery. As he makes his way through, several people try to grip his legs, in their faces he sees desperation for release. He swallows thickly, scanning the sweaty, impassioned bodies for signs of Sherlock. It’s hard to pick up his scent in this room, and Watson fears that maybe he has a false lead.

 

Before he can think anymore, he is shoved into a secluded room. The seedy beta grins at him again and then leaves him, alone. Watson is trying to figure out how he’s going to free these captives without getting trapped himself when a scent permeates the air. It’s familiar and  _ good _ , and it’s getting stronger the closer the person appears. 

 

He doesn’t need to see the person, a smile crests his face, because he  _ knows _ . It’s Sherlock - Watson’s search was not in vain.

 

Sherlock does not look up, he resolutely stares at the ground. He’s been apparently divested of his clothes and is instead wearing silk robes and fine jewellery. Flashes of his tanned skin peek through the robes as he moves closer, swaying his hips to imaginary music.

 

Watson wants to throw his arms around him and steal him away from this wretched place. The fiercest urge to protect is raging within him as well as the need to hurt the people who’ve done this. 

 

“Sherlock, it’s me, Watson.”

 

His head flies up and he promptly shushes Watson. “You will get us both killed.” He moves closer until he is standing in front of the alpha.  Watson feels an angered growl building low in his throat, enraged at the injustice and the pain he sees in his mate’s eyes.  But Sherlock places a cool finger to his lips. “Play along.” His burning black eyes meet Watson’s cool blue ones and a second goes by without anyone speaking before Sherlock throws himself at Watson, wrapping his slender arms around him and resting his head against his shoulder. “We don’t get many handsome alphas like you in here.” Sherlock’s voice drops lower and he lets Watson watch as he bites down on the soft flesh of his bottom lip. He settles himself comfortably in Watson’s lap and looks up at him through long lashes.

 

Watson blinks, trying to follow Sherlock’s lead. “Well,” John swallows, watching as a pink tongue darts out to trace his now flushed red, shiny lip, “I’m not just any alpha.”

 

Sherlock leans back, practically purring in Watson’s lap. “Oh? And what kind of alpha are you?” He punctuates his statement with a careful wink.

 

“I’m more curious about you, really.” Watson says taking in a deep breath so he doesn’t lose his mind. The robe is slowly slipping off of Sherlock’s shoulder, revealing to Watson more of that touchably smooth skin. It’s fucking distracting. Watson finds that he wants to put his mouth on Sherlock’s collarbone, suck a hard bruise into the flesh and give him so many imprints that no other alpha would want to touch him again. Mark Sherlock the way he did the first night.  “What’s a pretty omega like you doing here in the slums of England? It appears to me as though you’d be the omega mate of an imperial ruler.” 

 

Sherlock smirks and taps a finger to his temple, the way he does when his mind is coming up with ideas. Then he shrugs before leaning in to whisper seductively in Watson’s ear. “They tell me you prefer your omegas and betas bound and quiet. Care to make an exception for me?”

 

And Watson is trying very hard to keep it together. Sherlock is too  _ good _ at this. He’s trying hard not to be aroused because damn it, they are in the middle of a sex ring with people waiting outside the door who would gladly kill them if either of them messes up and blows their cover. Now is not the time for him to want to fuck Sherlock’s brains out. “Actually, I just might, as long I get to see what you do with that gorgeous mouth of yours.”

 

But then they hear footfalls heading away from the door. They both listen closely to see if they are truly alone, and after it goes eerily quiet Sherlock is suddenly embracing him again, surprising Watson with the force of it. “I’ve missed you, John.” 

Watson nods, hugging Sherlock tighter. “I’ve missed you too Sherlock.”

 

The omega shakes his head. “I’m truly sorry that I put you through all of that, but there’s something you should know.”

 

Watson ponders on it. A million thoughts flood his mind and he feels a great jealousy rise to the surface. “How many have accosted you?”

 

Sherlock goes stiff in his arms. “No one has, you are my first buyer. I have news...”

 

Watson takes in a deep breath, preparing himself. “What is this news, Sherlock?” 

 

He senses the spike of fear in his mate and tries to ease some of the tension by rubbing soothing circles in Sherlock’s back and wills his body to send off calming pheromones. After a little while, Sherlock says in a weak, pained voice, “I’m pregnant.”

 

And Watson gently takes Sherlock’s face in his hands so he can see the lad’s expression. Watson cannot hide the tears that threaten to overwhelm him, and so with blue eyes glistening wet, he asks Sherlock to repeat himself. The lad does, before exclaiming “Oh Watson, you are going to detest me. Look at the danger I have put us in!”

 

Watson places tender kisses to Sherlock’s temple. “My love, you are with child. This is a joyous reason to celebrate.”

 

Sherlock huffs. “We need to survive first.”

 

“We  _ are _ going to survive. You have to trust me.”

 

“There isn’t a person on this Earth that I trust more.” 

* * *

Sherlock manages to free many captives while Watson takes down plenty of Moriarty’s goons. Watson winds up in Moriarty’s private chamber but when he gets there the alpha is nowhere to be found. There is no sign of him except the scent of panic that Watson follows, that leads him out to a courtyard.

 

“Help!” he hears a man cry out.

 

Watson runs towards the sound, believing it to have come from an endangered captive but he is extremely surprised to find that the sound has come from Moriarty himself. But what is even more surprising is that a female alpha is there, hands wrapped around Moriarty’s neck with a knife pressed against his throat.

 

Upon closer inspection, Watson gasps, “Irene? What are you doing here?”

 

She shrugs. “Well you didn’t expect me to leave you lot alone when my mate Sherlock’s in trouble now? What kind of broad do you think I am?” She punctuates each word by gripping Moriarty tighter. 

 

“Well, we can take him to the constables now. He’s no longer our concern,” Watson encourages, watching the blade and hoping that she isn’t going to do what he thinks she is.

 

“To bloody Hell with that. There’s no place here for monsters like ‘im. Locking ‘im up would be doing ‘im a favor!” She poises the knife at his throat.

 

“No, please!”  Moriarty shouts.

 

Watson closes his eyes and tries to block out the sounds of Moriarty’s choked screams. When his eyes open, the alpha is on the ground, taking his last breaths while a messy Irene stands over him. “Goes down like a bitch, ain’t he? Screams like one too.”

 

Watson blinks. “You killed him?”

 

She nods, pocketing the knife. “What? Don’t act like you didn’t want to. Or are you mad that I got to him first?”

 

He frowns. “Aren’t we just lowering ourselves to his level?”

 

Irene looks at the ground. “I’m afraid that would be impossible. He’s dancing with the devil now.”

 

Watson frowns, but does not say another word. Remembering Sherlock and how he left his mate alone, he announces: “We have to go.”

* * *

Sherlock has done a fine job of freeing the captives. He’s reassuring them and calming some down by the time Watson and Irene return.

“What happened?” Sherlock inquires, witnessing Irene’s bloody clothes.

“Moriarty’s dead,” the female alpha says. “Went down like a wretch he did.”

To Watson’s surprise, Sherlock hugs her. “You are bloody brilliant, Irene.” 

They hug for longer than Watson’s comfortable with. Watson involuntarily growls and Irene’s eyes widen. “Do you still not like me?”

Sherlock explains. “Irene, I’m pregnant and Watson’s a bit... protective.” He says, coming closer to his alpha and kissing his cheek. 

“A bit,” Irene mutters, rolling her eyes. “So what are we going to do with them?” She points to the frightened people.

“Well,” Watson says. “They are survivors of a horrible crime. We will get them to the investigators, I’ll provide them with as much medical attention that I can and hopefully, some semblance of normalcy will return.”

Soon the place swarms with detectives and constables, Irene leaves before they arrive, naturally. 

“Well, it’s been quite a day.” Watson sighs, wrapping an arm around Sherlock who places his head on the alpha’s shoulder.

“If nothing eventful happens for the rest of my life, I believe that I’d be alright with that.”

Watson laughs. “Just having you in my arms again is all the excitement I need.” 

“Let’s never get ourselves involved with any more crises especially once our child is born, alright?” Sherlock declares, exhausted and breathless.

“Never again, my love,” Watson agrees.

“So how would you both like the opportunity to be two of London’s finest detectives?” Inspector Lestrade walks in and sees them sitting on the floor , Sherlock doesn’t know much about him except that he’s Watson’s friend, it’s apparent by the way their faces light up upon seeing each other. The constable also appears clearly grateful that they took down Moriarty.

Sherlock and Watson exchange glances. “What say you, Sherlock?” Watson inquires.

“The French have a saying: ‘Qui n’avance pas, recule’. Either one evolves, or one devolves. There is always something new to learn and staying stagnant in life would be a great injustice to yourself.” The omega states, never taking his eyes off his mate’s.

Watson nods, Lestrade raises an eyebrow. It is in that moment that everything would change even more, but just like the water that becomes agitated with the wind, so comes the peace that settles when all is calm. 

“Holmes and Watson at your service.” They say in unison. And thus, it begins...

_ “It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.” _ \- William Shakespeare   
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please expect an epilogue and a delicious, steamy mpreg smut bonus chapter coming soon.
> 
> I didn't mean to spring this as the ending chapter without warning but, no worries, there will be more. This isn't the last you'll see of these two. ;)
> 
> I love you all so, so much. Thank you for sticking with this fic so far and for putting up with me. I am forever grateful!


	13. Light Me Up and Leave Me Yearning (For I am Burning for You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All day long he craves for more,  
> but the righteous give without sparing."  
> Proverbs 21:26 
> 
> "Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs,  
> Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes,  
> Being vexed, a sea nourished with lovers' tears.  
> What is it else? A madness most discreet,  
> A choking gall and a preserving sweet."  
> \-- William Shakespeare , "Romeo and Juliet | Act 1, Scene 1"
> 
> Wherein Watson gets to show his pregnant omega just how much he is loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! It's good to be back! Happy New Year, I hope it's going beautifully for you guys. <3
> 
> And thank you so much for all for the kudos/hits/bookmarks/everything! I appreciate it immensely! I am eternally grateful and indebted to you all for helping to make this experience an awesome one.
> 
> I want to thank my beta, Deinvati, for the wonderful edits and awesome feedback and for just being supremely reliable! 
> 
> I promised to give you guys a smut-filled bonus chapter and here it is! The tags will be updated accordingly. ;) This was really fun to write. I hope you all enjoy and thanks for sticking around! <3 <3

_ “Holy water cannot help you now... _

_ And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out _ ”

-‘Seven Devils’, Florence and the Machine

 

 

“ _ Worship your body as you walk my way _

_ You're the only one who can make me pray _

_ I fall at your feet, your breath defined _

_ And underneath my skin's an intrinsic shrine _

_ Mmm mm _

 

_ Drink my tears, I'm at your mercy _

_ I love you most, but I'm not worthy _

_ I'll give my soul, sacrifice me _

_ Cause your love is holy _

_ Is holy _

 

_ I can fight but the devil wins _

_ And I will fall like a saint who sins _

_ Forgive me Father, I am weak _

_ And it's not forgiveness that I seek _ ”

 

-‘Holy’, Zolita

* * *

 

On a peaceful, rainy Sunday afternoon, Watson languidly situates himself on the chesterfield in the sitting room. A warm cup of tea is resting on an adjacent table and the daily paper is in his hands. He finds it hard to convince himself to leave the lodging for any other reason than it catching on fire. The calming patter of the outside downpour as it taps on the roof coupled with the crackle pop of the burning wood from the fireplace are enough to tempt him into staying, along with the fact that it is probably deathly cold out there while it is toasty in here. Even though he promised he’d go to Scotland Yard to discuss some things with Lestrade, he isn’t feeling the least bit inclined to leave this sanctuary of warmth and comfort.  

 

In his defense, he has never taken an unofficial day off as it goes against his professional nature - he doesn’t believe in wasting other people’s time or letting them down when they need him most. He prides himself on being reliable. However, his decision to take a short hiatus from doctoring has given him an excuse to think about himself a little more. The world, he has realized, will not suddenly come to an end if he decides to go on holiday for a few months.

 

Besides, Watson for the life of him doesn’t understand why Lestrade counts on him so much when they usually achieve a lot more progress with Sherlock there. Not to mention, it’s not the same without him. The cases just aren’t as absorbing without the omega there to spread his contagious determination and enthusiasm.

 

These days Watson feels so bereft without his sleuthing partner that he finds himself getting distracted on cases, his mind always flying back to Sherlock. His wit, his humor, how he’s doing without Watson around...

 

And seeing that the omega is now nearly nine months along and is very heavy with child, he spends most of his time resting at their shared lodging on 221B Baker’s Street, either playing with and caring for Gladstone or driving Mrs. Hudson mad. 

 

Watson does his best to tend to him and be a helping hand when he needs one, but Sherlock is always so obstinate. He insists on doing things himself. He only accepts Watson’s help in times where he’s exhausted or aching from random pains, but he never accedes without making a show out of it. Watson knows Sherlock likes his independence and he does not intend to take that away from his omega, he really just wants to be a caring alpha.

 

He can’t help the wild, possessive streak that sparks within him when other alphas are around Sherlock, or the constant compulsion to shower his omega and his unborn child with gifts and treats. He can’t even find it within himself to leave Sherlock for long, worrying endlessly if Sherlock’s alright when he’s away from his omega for more than a few hours. If Lestrade or any one of Watson’s friends notice his lack of focus, they have the good decency not to mention it.

 

Watson’s smart enough to realize that Sherlock will never ask for his assistance. Luckily, he can pick up from time to time when the omega is uncomfortable, or tired, or upset, thanks to the fact that their bond has made them in tune with each other. He tries to act accordingly, helping Sherlock discreetly, and it does work, so long as he isn’t making it too obvious. There’s no doubt in Watson’s mind Sherlock is aware he sneaks extra vegetables in his meals and little things like that, but his omega lets him do it. Deep down, Sherlock understands that it gives Watson peace of mind.

 

Sherlock has a lot of pride, sure, and although it is frustrating at times and Watson has to sometimes go to extreme measures to level the playing field, Watson would not trade him for anything or anyone in the world. 

 

Especially not now, when in his pregnant, hormone-addled state Sherlock’s been as determined as ever to make Watson come enough so he can get his fill. It’s like he’s some sort of lewd, desperate addict longing to be anointed but averse to being cured. Watson doesn’t know when he allowed himself to get this wrecked or when Sherlock made him into this licentious heathen, but he finds that he can’t deny giving Sherlock what he wants. He lets Sherlock suck him off, stroke him, fuck himself senseless on Watson’s cock just so he can watch greedily as the omega’s body gets its fair share of his spill. He’s damned, they both are, but oh how _deliciously_ it burns.

 

* * *

Watson is reading an interesting article in the paper about the decline of alpha privilege and the resulting benefits that are happening throughout England and the world, when the pillow-soft scent of Sherlock suddenly curls itself around him, making him feel so much warmer and the atmosphere a lot more cozy.

 

He sets the paper aside. “Good afternoon, my love,” John greets, watching his omega as Sherlock stands in the middle of the room, sleepily yawning and absent-mindedly raking a hand through his messy, ever-present bed head. 

 

Fierce affection rears up in Watson at the sight of him, practically glowing from the light of the nearby fireplace, his borrowed shirt a bit too-large for him yet tight in places where Sherlock hastily buttoned it. His round belly and small, slightly curved breasts are visibly outlined as they press against the material. The smooth skin of his pretty hips are exposed as the shirt hikes up as he moves. A huge, loving smile crests Watson’s face - pregnancy looks good on Sherlock, which is no surprise to Watson since  _ everything _ looks good on him. Nothing is going to stop the alpha from mentally recording every bit of these moments just to look back on later with fondness or other not-quite-as-innocent feelings.

 

“What are you doing?” Sherlock asks, still semi out of it but steadily gaining clarity. He had been sleeping in their bedroom and Watson, hoping not to disturb him, stayed in the sitting room so his mate could get some much needed rest.

 

“I was reading. Is there anything I can help you with?” Watson inquires, rising from his seat to give Sherlock a loving embrace and kiss the top of his head. 

 

“‘M hungry,” Sherlock grumbles and Watson presses his lips gently to his forehead. 

 

“Then let’s fetch you something to eat,” he says, pulling away but keeping an arm around Sherlock’s waist just so he can feel the omega’s heated skin against his. 

 

“I don’t like that expression.” Sherlock admits when they’ve reached the kitchen. He allows Watson to pull out his chair and help him sit down at the table. Watson busies himself taking out the ingredients for soup as well as a loaf of bread. 

 

Watson turns to him, while testing the stove. “Why don’t you like the expression?” 

  
“Because I don’t like anything that has the word ‘fetch’ in it unless it has to do with dogs,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, toying with a flower from the centerpiece.

Watson rolls his eyes affectionately. “You are mighty strange.”

Sherlock nods his head, agreeing. Then, “Mother and Father called to see how we were doing and if we were in need of anything. I told them that we were fine, but I know they’re as anxious to see little Gideon as much as we are.” He smiles, patting his stomach softly. 

Watson goes back to preparing the soup. “I hope they’re remembering to relax every now and then. I know they’re as excited as we are, and I do adore your parents, but we must all remember to take it easy lest we lose our heads too soon. And how are you so sure our child is going to be a boy? He could very well be a she you know. We could have a little girl and call her Gail.” 

Sherlock shrugs. “I know, but telling them to calm down is about as effective as getting Gladstone to wake up once he’s fallen asleep. And whatever the baby is, I want her or him to just  _ get here already _ .”

Watson turns off the stove and gets the bowls and utensils. Once he and Sherlock are finally digging into their meal, he reaches over and clasps his omega’s hand in his. “Our baby will get here. You are doing an amazing job. There is no need to worry, dearest one.” The light that sparks in Sherlock’s eyes and the resulting grin that crests his face at those words is basically just one of the things that Watson lives for.

* * *

They’re back in the sitting room, Sherlock curled up on the couch in about a hundred blankets thanks to Watson being afraid that his omega will freeze, while he is back in his chair, reading a book.

He’s just forming an opinion of the newly introduced heroine when the sugary-sweet scent of slick fills his nose. His eyes immediately fly to Sherlock who is sitting at the edge of the couch looking distant. He’s no longer wrapped in the blankets and is instead just covered by the thin material of his dress shirt.

The peaked nubs of his nipples are obscenely visible from Watson’s angle, Watson’s teeth chew his bottom lip as he pictures how sweet they would taste on his tongue, the faces Sherlock would make when they’re fondled, the way they would leak at Watson’s attention. His pants tighten and the scent of aroused alpha fills the room competing with that of needy omega. 

When Watson’s eyes meet Sherlock’s, he can see the obvious desire in their dark depths matching his own, and within seconds John is crossing the room to get to his mate. He pulls Sherlock to him and claims his mouth in a bruising kiss, mindful of the omega’s stomach.

Sherlock moans, fingers trailing up Watson’s arm before settling in his hair. Breathlessly, Watson chuckles. “We made love this morning.” The images of gentle kisses, soft touches and sweet release fill his mind and he buries his nose in the soft skin of Sherlock’s throat, just to breathe in their mingled scent to further remind himself.

Sherlock bites his lip, which really isn’t fair for Watson’s self-control. His lips are almost always abused and red these days, making him look more debauched and depraved than usual. It is so distracting that it takes a lot of Watson’s self-discipline to concentrate on thoughts other than how much of his cock those exquisite lips can take. 

“I can’t help but want you again. Come on,  _ sir _ , I’m merely human. No need to be so cruel.” Sherlock’s eyes shine with pure seductive evil, they’re obsidian as they pin him. Watson curses himself as he tries to fight it, but he knows he doesn’t have so much as a prayer.

He leans in and ghosts his breath across his mate’s ear. “You’re still so desperate for a knot. Just absolutely insatiable. I should leave you like this, wanton and needy. Leave you  _ begging _ …”

“P-please sir. Please knot me. I want it, I want you.” 

Watson shakes his head, kindly cruel in his mock-disappointment. “That’s not good enough, Sherlock. Don’t hide the whore you are. Beg  _ harder _ .” 

Sherlock mewls feebly, exasperated but determined and urges Watson over to the chesterfield. Watson obliges, his half-hard dick twitching under Sherlock’s hungry gaze.

Sherlock is comfortably warm and feather soft as he crawls onto Watson’s lap. Watson’s fingers trail along his creamy skin as he buries his nose in Sherlock’s silky hair inhaling the smell of soap and butterscotch. He’s perfectly content like this, just having his omega in his arms, but his dick has other plans and seeing as Sherlock keeps squirming and breathing heavily, it’s safe to say that he does too.

The rain is barely audible now, but Watson’s sure there could be a fucking hurricane and he wouldn’t hear a thing except the thumping of his own heartbeat. A gentle but firm hand takes his and rests it on the hard roundness of Sherlock’s belly. Sherlock holds his hand there, sighing contentedly as Watson’s alpha thrills at the primal satisfaction of having mated with a fertile omega. It’s like an electric spark through both of their bodies as John’s excitement permeates the atmosphere. Watson can’t help how he feels in knowing that Sherlock is bearing his child and no one else’s. 

Then Sherlock is moving Watson’s hand lower until he’s touching the omega’s length and Sherlock practically keens. He’s soaking, his dick is slippery with precome and Watson can feel the slick wetting his trousers. “How long have you been like this?” Watson asks, stroking Sherlock a few times and reveling in the way the omega’s hips try to follow the movement.

“A-all day, sir.” He whimpers.

Watson tsks. “My, my, you  _ are _ a little whore.” But he says it with so much affection that it doesn’t sting too much, just enough for Sherlock’s whole body to flush a pretty scarlet.

Sherlock is tense. He’s letting out small gasps and groaning with his eyes shut tight, overly responsive to every touch. The omega is pent up, unable to be sated and the pregnancy isn’t really helping.

It is Watson’s fault. He hasn’t been knotting Sherlock nearly as much as he used to. He’s switched the harder sex for something a bit more basic and light but he should have known that Sherlock wouldn’t tolerate basic for long.

He places an apologetic kiss to Sherlock’s throat before wrapping his fingers around his mate’s length and stroking it a few times. The strangled shout Sherlock makes as he spasms on the alpha’s lap is music to Watson’s ears.

Watson’s fingers are now slippery with Sherlock’s sugary scented come, it’s not as sweet as his slick but it’s still one of Watson’s favorite treats. He lifts his fingers to his lips while Sherlock, who is coming down from his high, watches, rapt, as Watson sucks off each digit.

They share a messy kiss before Sherlock is undoing the buttons of his dress shirt, revealing more of his skin to Watson and those puffed rosy nipples that seem to harden even more under Watson’s hungry gaze. Watson thumbs one and Sherlock moans, there’s a brief flash of creamy skin as Sherlock places an arm between their bodies before the squelching sound of slick fills the air and Watson realizes that Sherlock is fingering himself. 

He can’t help it - he lifts up another hand to play with both of Sherlock’s soft, plush breasts.  _ They’ve been neglected for far too lon _ g, Watson thinks, even though it’s only been a few hours since he last touched them. They’re starting to leak a little and Watson wastes no time in lapping at them, delighting in the warm, rich taste of Sherlock’s breastmilk. 

Sherlock comes again while Watson’s gently grazing his teeth across a nipple. The butterscotch scent curls around the two of them now, inescapable, as both Sherlock and Watson are wet with the omega’s slick. Sherlock’s night-black gaze doesn’t leave Watson’s bright blue one as he takes his time licking his own slick off his fingers. It’s a sight Watson never tires of, but his impatient knot threatens to break free of its confines, happy to see his omega getting sated but unable to deny that the need is bordering on painful now.

Sherlock seems to have picked up on Watson’s dilemma because with fingers too deft for their own good, he’s undoing Watson’s trousers and pulling his cock out to tease the shaft with his skilled, firm hand. After a few torturingly light strokes, Watson stops him. “Are you sure you’re comfortable with this?” Through the haze of incredible pleasure some sense is worming its way through. “Because we don’t have to if you’re going to be uncomfortab -”

Usually, being this far in a pregnancy, it becomes a little painful to take a knot. Many omegas choose other ways to be intimate with their partners to avoid the discomfort, and Watson has slowly been trying to eliminate Sherlock’s desire for his knot. It’s a precaution, really. Hence, the reason he’s been knotting him less and less. He doesn’t want Sherlock to be in pain. It’s not worth it for Watson to bruise his beloved over an evening of passion.

  
Sherlock, however, takes this as an offense. His eyes burning with challenge and lips quirked with devilish mischief, the omega angles himself over  Watson’s cock. Watson doesn’t get to say another word before the omega is slowly lowering himself down onto the hard length, his tight, wet heat swallowing every inch of John’s throbbing sex. It’s all too fast and too slow at once. It’s not until Watson’s bottoming out when the vicious, maddening pleasure wraps itself around him so tightly it wrenches a savage growl from the alpha. 

For a couple of seconds, Watson savors the heat around his cock and tries to gain some control. Despite the pleasure absorbing all of his senses, he’s actually really impressed by how much Sherlock can take. 

He’s aware that he’s still fully clothed while Sherlock is stark naked, facing the doorway and perched on Watson’s lap like Watson’s own private cock-hungry hooker. The thing is, even if someone were to walk in on them, Watson wouldn’t feel an ounce of shame or even the urge to stop. Even if they had an audience, he really wouldn’t care. He’d even go so far as to tip his hat off to them, encouraging them to enjoy the show and maybe stick around for the encore performance.

It’s remarkable how limited their shame is. Sherlock’s pride and acceptance of every dirty little sexual obsession has helped Watson to be more open. 

Sherlock’s moving his hips in little circular motions, his silent plea to get Watson to move is fast becoming desperate. Slowly, John’s hands clasp Sherlock’s lush hips, keeping him still for a second. Sherlock simply thinks Watson’s anchoring himself and trying not to come too fast, but for Watson, it’s a reminder that he’s got to keep his head afloat. Hurting Sherlock or their unborn child is out of the question.

The second Watson gives Sherlock the go ahead and lightens his hold on him, Sherlock begins to ride him at such a desperate pace that he’s practically bouncing on Watson’s cock like it’s his fucking right. He’s wet  _ everywhere  _ \- the backs of his thighs, his breasts, his greedy hole and his sweet prick. But Watson knows that none of that is enough for him, he never seems to be complete without Watson’s spill. The alpha isn’t sure what that says about either of them, and he knows it can’t be good, but god damn it if he cares.

Sherlock comes again, mouth open in a silent scream before he’s chanting Watson’s name like a benediction. The way he’s clenching around Watson’s cock, hips twitching and omega channel thrumming with his release, the alpha knows that this climax will sate him for awhile. Watson places kisses to every part of Sherlock he can reach as he lets the omega coax his knot to pop. “Come for me, love,” Sherlock says, and Watson’s orgasm is ripped out of him with a force so strong it can’t be human. He fills Sherlock with the searing hot fluid as Sherlock pants and whimpers above him.

It feels rejuvenating, as if his whole body is being taken apart and put back together again. Every atom in his body is restoring itself. He feels brand-new and refreshed, but it’s also enough to leave him shaking - the intensity is overwhelming.

When he looks down at Sherlock, he sees that the omega’s eyes are gently closed and he’s still chanting Watson’s name along with a litany of ‘fuck’. 

“W-we need to do that again,” Sherlock says once they’ve both calmed down a little, but a yawn tears through him, revealing that his body has differing intentions.

Watson leans down to kiss him, reveling in the light and airy feel of his bones as they move along with him. “You need your rest.”

For once, Sherlock doesn’t have a refute. They wait silently as Watson’s knot shrinks, before he’s slipping out of Sherlock. Watson can’t help but stare at the amount of spunk dripping from Sherlock’s hole. Like a man possessed, his fingers move lower to prod the abused entrance, savoring in the amount of white seed that drools down his fingers.

Sherlock makes a gratified sound, obviously pleased with himself and his ability to make Watson come so hard he sees stars.

“You’re going to lead to my demise,” Watson declares, not for the first time. He thinks back to the beginning, how far they’ve both come. Purity, Watson realizes, is an illusion. He wouldn’t have known that had he not spent that first night with Sherlock. And just because he isn’t ‘pure’, it doesn’t mean that he’s vile. It simply means that he is human. He isn’t sure if he’ll ever be saved, but then again, he’s not sure if he even wants to be. 

He likes this state that they’re in, this state of self-acceptance. It’s far more pleasant than that of self-loathing. And a million times more fun.

Sherlock smirks. “I suppose you could be doomed in worse ways.”

 

And mercy help him, he’s right. Watson grins wide. Sherlock always is. He gets what he wants and he’s spoiled and proud of it too, and yet, Watson wouldn’t have him any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget that the final chapter will be the epilogue! The baby's gender will be revealed and questions will be answered. :) Hope you all have a good one! I'll see you next chapter! <3 <3


	14. Nunc, et in Hora Mortis Nostrae (The End)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a snippet from the latin version of the Hail Mary prayer, Ave Maria. It means "now and at the hour of our death." :) 
> 
> Songs that inspire me: 'Hold Me Down' 'Coming Down' by Halsey and 'Believer' by Imagine Dragons
> 
> I wasn't ready to end this story yet so I delayed this chapter, but now I think it's the perfect time to close this tale. It's been one hell of a ride and I loved every minute of it. :)
> 
> Thank you guys so, so much for reading and being a very special part of this journey. I fiercely appreciate it! 
> 
> Thank you. <3

“ _ Take my hand through the flames. . . _ ”

 

\- ‘Sucker for Pain’, Suicide Squad Soundtrack

 

Sherlock goes into labor the day Watson’s working on a particularly grizzly case. Lestrade crosses the dimly lit streets  - wet still from the blood of Moriarty’s copycat’s latest victims - to tell him of the good news. 

 

The alpha hesitates only briefly before comprehension catches up with him and a giant smile breaks across his face. “Already?” Watson asks, frantically collecting his things. Burning excitement like electric heat flares through him, hot enough to singe his blood, and he finds he desperately wants to rush out of the crime scene like a madman on a mission. 

 

These slain men will have their justice, of course, but right now, nothing else matters more to him than being by his mate’s side.

 

Lestrade, despite what Sherlock thinks, is no fool. He senses the depth of Watson’s anxiety and with a wide grin, sends Watson off with a congratulations and orders him not to come in until he and Sherlock are settled. 

 

Watson’s feeling many things but one of the primary emotions is gratitude. He throws his friend in for a hug and then is rushing out into the chilly, damp air to get to Sherlock.

 

As he arrives at the door to Sherlock’s former residence, he barely gets the chance to knock before Judith, Sherlock’s mother, is wrenching it open and urging him inside. “Watson, thank goodness. He’s upstairs with Dr. Campbell. Can you believe it’s time already?” Her face is flushed scarlet and she’s blinking qute a lot. Watson’s sure if he could see himself, he probably looks just as animated. 

 

He smiles at her, briefly thinking back to the time when he and Sherlock confessed that they had mated. Neither she nor her husband were initially thrilled with the news, but once they realized that there was no one on earth who loved Sherlock as Watson did, they eventually warmed up to the relationship. Now, Judith pulls the alpha in for a hug, sighing and wiping a stray tear from her cheek. “You’d better go join them, Sherlock’s been waiting for you since his water broke.”

 

Watson nods, gently breaking out of the embrace to hang his coat. “Where’s Arthur?”

 

“Here I am! So glad you could make it, my boy!” Watson gets little more than a moment before he is once again being embraced. 

 

He pats the older man on his back and breathes out: “Good to see you again.”

 

Shouting can be heard from up above as the pain grips Sherlock. Watson stiffens, the secondhand agony ripping through him and he grits his teeth. 

 

“I suppose you need to go and calm things,” Arthur tells Watson. He lifts his wife’s hand and places a gentle kiss to her wrist.

 

“Indeed,” Watson says, quickly moving to ascend the stairs.

 

“Just think,” Judith calls, “in a few hours you will be a father.”

 

It’s the scariest, most amazing thing that Watson’s ever been looking forward to.

 

George and Gertrude, the servants, rush past him carrying towels and pitchers of water. Watson doesn’t hesitate for long, his muscles going taut like piano wires when the scent of Sherlock’s adrenaline floods his being.

 

He follows behind them, briefly greeting Dr. Campbell before he’s by his mate’s side. Sherlock who is panting harshly, his hair soaked and splayed across the pillow like a frazzled halo and his skin flushed rosy red underneath his tan, has never looked more beautiful or more powerful than in this moment. Watson immediately grabs his hand and places a chaste kiss to his forehead.

 

Hazy, depthless, night-dark eyes study him and a sleepy grin crosses Sherlock’s face. “You’ve made it,” he says.

 

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, my love.”

 

Sherlock closes his eyes. “Good, because I need you. . .I always need you.”

* * *

Hours upon hours pass. Watson aids Dr. Campbell as best as he can. Every now and then, Sherlock will groan or shift restlessly and Watson will go over to reassure him or put another blanket over him.

 

It seems to go on forever, until Sherlock cries out particularly loud in the early hours of the morning and Dr. Campbell checks him. “It’s time.” It’s all he says before he’s getting Sherlock ready for the birthing. 

 

Watson’s eyes widen and he kisses Sherlock’s brow excitedly - his mate has to start pushing.

* * *

After a few more hours of screaming, crying, and even more panic, a small, pink, wailing baby is placed in Sherlock’s waiting arms. 

 

Tears cloud Watson’s vision and he eagerly wipes them away to peer down at the wonderful life that he and his mate have created. 

 

“Congratulations,” Dr. Campbell blesses, “she’s a happy, healthy baby girl.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t stop kissing her. Watson watches them both, in awe and wonder, unable to remember ever being happier than at this moment. He has never been more grateful than now to have a family.

 

The baby stretches out a tiny hand and he marvels at her little fingers, her cute face, her lovely dark hair.

 

“Welcome little Gail,” Watson kisses her head, only marginally aware of Judith and Arthur, standing nearby, holding back tears. He’s unable to take his eyes off his child for even a second.

 

Sherlock sighs, his gaze is soft, thoughtful. “Mycroft was always a fan of the name Marie, he adored the French. Shall her middle name be Marie?”

 

“Gail Marie Holmes. I quite like that. That’s rather admirable of you. I’m sure wherever Mycroft is he is proud of you, Sherlock,” he states, pressing the back of his hand to Sherlock’s flushed cheeks, content as Sherlock kisses his palm. “As proud of you as I am.”

 

The amount of love in Sherlock’s gaze as he stares at Watson and their daughter is enough for John’s heart to skip a beat. He whispers softly to his child before pressing his lips to Sherlock’s temple, “Welcome to the world, little Gail.”

* * *

 

_**A few years later. . .** _

Watson is holding Gail, trying vainly to keep her from unravelling her hair bow. Eventually, she gets bored and instead finds his shirt more fascinating. He can’t help it - she has a tenacity that only Sherlock can rival. He laughs and kisses the top of her head, her soft, dark curls brush against his cheek. 

 

The waves meet the shore behind them, soft, hushed  _ shhhs  _ every minute as the water surges and retreats, calming in ways only the ocean can be. 

 

The sand is bright and gold, a beautiful contrast to the aquamarine of the water and the muted, powder blue of the sky. Watson is content here, relieved to be away from the harsh cold of England. A gentle breeze floats past, carrying with it the lovely heat and the salty scent of the caribbean sea.

 

Watson peers down at his daughter, whose bright blue eyes pin him with piqued curiosity. “Daddy, where’s papa?”

 

He presses a tender kiss to her cheek and gestures ahead to a point before them. “He’s on his way.”

 

And like Watson claimed, Sherlock is soon sauntering towards them, looking healthy, pleasantly warm and happy as a lark. Watson greets his mate with a kiss as Sherlock, mindful of his new bump, lifts Gail in the air before placing her on his hip.

 

Sherlock blinks up at Watson, sheilding his eyes from the glowing sun with his palm. “Why’d you ask me to meet you out here, darling?”

 

Watson can’t help it. He wraps his arm around his mate’s waist and pulls him into an embrace. These next words will be the easiest thing he’s ever had to ask Sherlock and it’s not because he’s sure of his omega’s answer. The question is an easy one to ask because he knows that there is no one else on this earth he wants to pose it to. No one else he loves more than Sherlock Holmes.

 

“Sherlock, my love, we’ve been through so much together. There is no one on this planet that I love more than you. And I want to make this official. I want to make you mine in the way a man should: will you marry me?”

 

And Sherlock, bless him, without an ounce of hesitation says: “I am carrying our second child. What do you think?”

 

“You want to hear my theories?” Watson smirks.

 

Sherlock smiles and rolls his eyes, feigning impatience.

 

“I believe you are as every bit delighted to call me yours as I am to call you mine,” Watson states, placing a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips.

 

Sherlock grins as bold and bright as the morning sky. “Indeed, you are correct, my dear Watson.”

 

For once, they’re both right.

 

_"O, none, unless this miracle have might,_

_That in black ink my love may still shine bright." -_ Shakespeare's Sonnet 65

 

**_The End_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been amazing!
> 
> Catch you guys on the flipside. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> More to come soon! Thank you so much for reading you beautiful people.
> 
> I am still in shock of the response to my last Sherlock fic, I can't thank you guys enough for that.
> 
> I was a little nervous to post this, because like I said, I have strange tastes, but hopefully you all enjoyed it. 
> 
> See you next chapter!


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